


This is just the beginning

by JustDanny



Category: Psych (TV 2006)
Genre: Carlton Lassiter Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26616406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustDanny/pseuds/JustDanny
Summary: In which there's a serial killer on the loose (again), Carlton Lassiter finds himself a boyfriend, and Shawn Spencer re-evaluates his sexuality.
Relationships: Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer
Comments: 96
Kudos: 105





	1. Corpses and meet cute scenes

The corpse is staring at him with wide blue eyes. Mouth gaping, he thinks he can hear _something_ coming out of it. He is, of course, way off: dead people tend to remain mostly quiet, at least once they’re half-frozen down here.

“That was unfortunate,” he hears Spencer saying. He’s laughing at something Strode said or did; O’Hara’s voice shushes him, though it is unconvincing. She should learn to be more stern, or he’ll make a fool out of her every time he happens to be around.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Guster’s disgusted grimace when everybody’s attention turns back to their victim. Not a lot can be said about the dead man: late thirties to early forties, no ID, nothing memorable about him except- Well.

“He kind of looks like you.”

O’Hara doesn’t even sound surprised. It is a statement, an objective fact: the dead man looks remarkably like Carlton, so much that it does something weird to his stomach. Not that he’s a perfect copy, of course. But still, he could be his long-lost second cousin or something like that. 

Carlton wrinkles his nose. 

The autopsy report gives them nothing; Spencer’s spirits seem awfully quiet today, too. It sadly doesn’t last: as soon as the topic veers off and he’s free to roam about the station, the 'psychic' starts babbling and pointing out such stupid, intimate details from everybody’s lives that Carlton feels the need to run away right before he actually _learns_ something about his colleagues. So he slips quietly off, gets away from the station and, for once, actually walks to his preferred coffee shop instead of taking the car - or, even better, having O’Hara or McNab grab a cup of coffee for him.

The fresh air gives him some time to think. Not about the case, per se; and obviously not about the freaky similarities between their victim and himself. But he does need some time to cool his head: he’s been working harder than he probably should these days, pulling longer days and having his job find its way into each and every last corner of his personal life. Not that he had much of one to begin with, but what little he’d managed to cling to seems to be about to disappear, devoured by a monstrous amount of paperwork and overtime. He hasn’t even been to his reenactment rehearsals; some of the guys there are probably thanking every deity they know for that.

When he gets to the coffee shop there’s a long line. Grumbling, damning every Santabarbaran who has to go and choose the exact same spot to have a cup of mediocre coffee and a half-stale muffin, he glances at his watch before tamely falling into line. The man right before him, an older guy in an expensive-looking suit, gives him a sideways glare before promptly taking a tiny step forward.

Five minutes later, the line hasn’t moved at all. There are new customers piling up behind Lassiter: a couple of selfie-obsessed teens, an obviously bored housewife with a baby, and a man in his thirties who bumps lightly into him at some point and gives him a look and a shy smile. Carlton is not amused.

There’s something about waiting in line for long periods of time, he thinks, that makes people not only fidgety, but also incommensurably chatty. It isn’t usually his case, of course: he’d rather swallow his coffee without any sugar in it than talk to a stranger, even if said stranger is sharing his same plight. But the man behind him isn’t deterred by his early lack of response, and instead plunges on with a tenacity he has only ever observed in O’Hara of all people. He is quite determined to introduce himself and, worse still, wrap Carlton up in an inane conversation. He doesn’t even look capable of stringing more than two sentences together, if he’s being honest.

Still, one of the many random facts the other man - Hugh - spews once he’s got them both to say their names does catch his attention. 

“I didn’t even know Santa Barbara had ever been a battlefield, you know. I sure wish I’d paid more attention in history class!”

Technically, he’s wrong. But it’s close enough: there are indeed several battles that took place in a sensible area around here, and most of them are being reenacted at least once a year, mostly inaccurately and, frankly, introducing far too many anachronisms for his liking. He’s about to point that fact out when the line suddenly moves, the improbably old lady at the front having apparently found all her change. By the time he’s about to order, he has only managed to exchange a few sentences with Hugh, who’s smiling broadly and looking at him with something close to adoration.

He has to admit, it feels _good_.

He’s about to pay when the other man stops him with a wink.

“What do you say, I buy you coffee and you keep telling me about this?”

He should say no. He should tell him to mind his own business and get back to the station, bury himself in paperwork while O’Hara drools at Spencer and the whole SBPD throws away their dignity and pride so that the fake psychic can gloat a bit more. Instead, he accepts.

“It’s about time to get on my lunch break, I guess.”

They walk around for a while, Carlton doing most of the talking while Hugh looks unhealthily interested in the ins and outs of Californian warfare history. It doesn’t take a genius to decide that maybe he’s less into the historically accurate part of the reenactments and more into getting Carlton to show up somewhere, maybe in his uniform. Still, it is not that bad: Hugh is not bad-looking, and from what he’s heard in the last half an hour, he does sound like an acceptably interesting person. He would, indeed, be out of Carlton's league somewhere else, though right now it seems like he’s getting luckier with every passing moment. 

“So, I guess I have to get back to work,” he manages after a long, healthy stroll. His coffee’s gone cold without him ever getting to drink it, but he’s still clutching the half-full cup in his hand. Absently, he throws it away, putting it into a bin, and it sort of feels like he’s saying goodbye to this little rendezvous forever.

“Shame. I was having fun.” Hugh’s eyes have a naughty glint in them; he winks at him, and Carlton’s stomach flutters slightly. It’s been long since he had someone so clearly interested in him; even longer since they remained so after hearing him speak for such a long time. “It would be nice to see you around, though. You know, Santa Barbara is not that big.”

“But it is. It has-”

“I meant, if I were to bump into you… This weekend, maybe. Saturday. At around, let’s say, one? I’d probably be having lunch all by myself at Gino’s. It’s a nice place.”

Carlton wrinkles his nose. It is a weird thing to do, he guesses, but it’s not like he’s been dating much these days. Maybe this is how it is supposed to go, how it should be: easy and comfortable, a smile and a nod, and the date is set.

“It is a nice place. I mean, for a- for lunch.”

Hugh beams at him. He has a nice smile, warm and open and slightly childish, innocent. It reaches his dark eyes, makes them gleam. Carlton finds himself mirroring it almost unconsciously.

***

As nice as it feels to hang around the station for far longer than necessary, Gus needs to go show up at his stupid, boring-ass _job_ , which means Shawn has to leave too. His friend has been patient enough with him and his frantic search for attention - any kind, but especially the adoring, completely helpless to stop staring at him sort of attention he usually gets from rookies and McNab. But now the crowd’s been disbanded by the Chief, things are starting to get boring, and his second best favourite sort of attention has no source to stem off from. 

Lassiter’s not there.

He could probably get a similar reaction from Chief Vick at some point, if he tried hard enough. She’d scoff and tell him, in no uncertain terms, that he’s to leave the premises immediately, threatening not to hire him any more if he decided not to comply. But the Chief’s annoyance lacks the elegance of Lassie’s complete and absolute disdain. That the man doesn’t like his methods, his presence or - at certain points - his very own self only makes it all feel more _real_. The detective’s ability to growl and make it sound absolutely natural is also a big part of why he treasures their confrontations so much: it is like facing off with a hound, only safer.

Very, very deeply buried under layers of complicated, half-mocking reasons why pissing off Lassie is just about the tenth best feeling in the world lies the unacknowledged fact that he actually _likes_ seeing the man. He may even enjoy his company, when he’s not being a complete ass. And also, though this is something he won’t ever say out loud, least of all to himself, he may also like his _actual_ ass. 

Head Detective Carlton Lassiter makes his way back into the station just as the Psych duo is about to leave. He’s wearing his cheap suit and tie, a pair of ugly yet probably uncomfortable shoes, and a slight smirk that may mutate into a full-fledged smile if he’s not careful with it. Shawn is immediately suspicious - who wouldn’t be, really - and, if not for Gus’ hand reaching out to stop him, he’d change the direction of his purposeful stroll.

“Good walk, Lassie? You know, you’re allowed to use the indoor restroom.”

He can’t help himself. He knows he’s pushing it, pushing his and Gus’ luck and probably gambling with their future jobs and well-being. When Lassiter makes it to Chief - which he will, as long as he gets his head out of his ass at some point, because he’d be a _fine_ cop if he ever dared think things over every once and again - he’ll likely stop hiring them on the spot. Maybe even arrest them, if he manages to find enough evidence of _something_. 

Lassiter’s response, however, is less angry than usual, barely more than a growl and a “Get out of here, Spencer.” 

Huh. That was weird.

***

  
Gino’s is noisy and discreet, not classy enough to be considered a good choice for a first date. It is the sort of place one would take his lover to, if he felt like celebrating their love while also wanting to keep his intimate affairs, well, _intimate_. 

Hugh is already waiting at a table when he arrives. He’s mostly hidden - a large percentage of the tables here are mostly hidden from view -, but he stands up and gestures at him to come sit as soon as he crosses the door.

Carlton is sweating. It is kind of warm outside, and he is wearing a long-sleeved shirt and a jacket and a pair of jeans O’Hara insisted it was a good idea to buy. Still, his sweat is mostly due to nerves: it concentrates on his hands and comes along with a dry mouth and a heart that’s beating at about ten times its usual rate.

It’s been a long time since he’s done this, especially with a man. The casually sitting down, the getting to know each other part of the conversation, the ignoring their mutual attraction while downing glasses of wine and eating subpar food bit. He breathes in and out slowly, tries to calm down. Hugh looks up at him and smiles somewhat condescendingly. 

“Nervous?” He’d like to snap a smart retort, but he does feel nervous, nearly naked when faced with a man so composed and sure of himself. But then Hugh speaks again, and he feels better. “You should have seen me when I got here. I almost dropped the first glass of wine. Luckily, the other two have done the trick.”

A new wink. It is fascinating, how his face moves fluidly, as if he were completely unaware of the effects his expressions are having on him. Carlton sits down awkwardly and forces a smile on before ordering some wine himself. A whole bottle he insists is for the both of them, though secretly he plans on downing it all.

It is a strange experience, dating a guy again when he’s almost forty. The last time he did something even remotely like this he was fresh out of high school, thought of himself alternatively as a brave rebel and a doomed sinner going straight to hell, and had had a penchant for older, repressed types. Probably seeing the future, there.

Hugh is so different from what he’s used to that it’s almost a miracle. He actually laughs at his jokes - not the strained, polite laugh that tends to end when she finds an excuse to use the restroom, never to be seen again, but a hearty laugh that starts at the base of his belly and shakes his whole body wonderfully. He talks more than he did on their first meeting, though he still lets Carlton carry most of the weight of the conversation, only steering him to other topics when he finds something particularly interesting.

It almost feels like the first times with Victoria, a lifetime and a half ago.

“So, you do this often?” It takes him three glasses of wine and the beginning of a fourth to ask the question that’s been burning him. Hugh should probably be offended by its implications, but maybe he’s also drunk enough not to care. 

“Do _you_?,” he retorts. They finished eating a while ago, but they’re still drinking, and the time for being coy has apparently begun. Carlton flushes.

“I, no. I don’t. Not with-”

“Men,” Hugh completes. Men _or_ women, is what Carlton thinks, but it’s close enough.

“I guess.”

“But you don’t mind it, right?”

He’d like to explain himself. To be articulate enough to tell him that it’s not that he doesn’t _mind_ it; he’s actually _needed_ it for a while. But he can’t do that when he’s sober, and alcohol is not making it any easier.

“I don’t,” he says instead. Hugh’s smile grows wider, and his hand snakes under the table to rest on his knee. Carlton doesn’t shake it off.

“I’m glad.”

He stopped dating men around the time he found out about his mom and Althea. It wasn’t just a question of timing: he never even lost interest, not completely. But it did feel _wrong_ , more than it had ever felt, when he couldn’t bring himself to look his mother in the face and tell him he was _happy_ for her. He wasn’t. He didn’t want her to be a lesbian, didn’t want her to find a girlfriend, to finally put her life together and forget all about the family she was leaving behind.

He tells Hugh that, once they’re walking around, barefoot, on the beach. There are a lot of people around, and they’re not drunk enough to be calling anyone’s attention, so they just walk, close enough that their shoulders bump, but not that it is _obvious_.

“I was pretty selfish, I guess.” He doesn't feel better after admitting to it. He’s done that before, once he came to terms with the fact that his mother is, indeed, a separate individual from the scarce memories he’s stubbornly been clinging to. That she does in fact deserve a chance at happiness.

“We all are, at some points. But we can learn from our past mistakes. I bet you’re closer now, aren’t you?”

He shrugs. As much as one can be with a Lassiter, he says, and he laughs and Hugh laughs with him. He slips a hand into the other man’s casually; it gets squeezed, reassuringly, and Carlton’s eartips redden.

“I think- I think I’d rather like to keep seeing you,” he mutters. It comes out dry, a bit slurred. Hugh nods and kisses him on the cheek, on the lips. A small, chaste peck. A couple of people stare at them, half of them amused while the others are seriously considering throwing something at the two. Carlton doesn’t care.

***

“So, what are we exactly doing here, Shawn?” 

Everything Gus says could be way more effective if he dared raise his voice above a whisper. As he doesn’t - something about not getting caught and thrown into jail, where pharmaceutical reps aren’t apparently very popular -, Shawn takes it as proof that he can just go and ignore every single word.

To be honest, he himself isn’t really sure. It’s not like the station is paying them for this: it isn’t even a case, at this point. But Dobson had the file laying around and Shawn’s got this awful condition where he can’t just up and leave things alone. An affinity for meddling, in Gus’ words; whatever that means.

So, after he looked into the file and saw the pictures of one Arthur Marsden, San Francisco native residing in Santa Barbara, he decided he had to learn at least a little bit more about him. For science.

Which is why they’re getting into the labs at the University. And why Gus is so worried that they’ll get caught, which really is absurd: they _almost_ never do, and when someone does happen to catch them, they are usually more interested in putting bullets through their heads than in getting them to jail.

Mr Marsden was apparently an orderly here at the Uni, though he had enough degrees to hold the title of Dean without much effort. An underachiever; Shawn can relate. He can relate a little bit less to the being killed with extreme prejudice and dying a quite horrifying death bit, though. Still, he feels like Arthur and himself are sort of brothers at heart.

The case has been open and shut. Or almost: Dobson seems to think a vagrant or a mugger committed the deed, opening up Mr Marsden’s prescient head with some sort of blunt instrument and trying to get rid of the body by burning it. Coincidentally, the burns have also erased all traces of DNA or actual evidence, and as such Dobson’s theory skips to the top by virtue of being the only one that doesn’t need any actual leads. Unknown, deranged person comes up and kills a guy: a cop can only do so much before he has to stop and dedicate his time and effort to other, more pressing things, like whatever it is that Dobson does at the station. 

Shawn, however, is half-convinced that there’s something else going on here. Mostly because of the pictures.

Mr Marsden wasn’t an ugly man. A bit too gangly, according to the pictures some coworker from the University gave the police once they started looking for him; but he had a nice face, with a smiling mouth and gleaming blue eyes. He also looked, if the pictures are to be trusted, like a certain John Doe waiting around in Woody’s fortress, who in turn looks a little, tiny bit like detective Lassiter. Which, honestly -though he’s not said anything nor plans on doing so-, has Shawn also a little, tiny bit worried. 

One is a spurn-of-the-moment thing, needs a motive, can be a coincidence. Two is the start of a pattern.

They don’t find much around the lab. Arthur Marsden loved working there the most, is what his coworkers have said about him. He’d actually studied chemistry or something with an equal potential for disaster, and even though he wasn’t working on that field, he still enjoyed taking a look at other researchers’ work.

There is nothing there that states that, less than a month ago, one of the people going there every day had been bludgeoned to death, then burnt in a back alley somewhere. No extra pictures, no memorial: Arthur Marsden doesn’t exist anymore, and so the world has started the inevitable path to forgetting his passing through it. Even the coworker who had given the pictures to the police, a nice looking young woman who worked alongside Mr Marsden, had trouble recounting more about the victim than what they already know. He kept mostly to himself, apparently, and wasn’t so big on having a social life or actually talking to people. Shawn feels a small pang in the chest when he stops to think that, in the end, only Gus and himself are giving a damn about poor Arthur Marsden.

They’ve already been to the dead guy’s apartment. The landlord hasn’t managed to rent it yet, so some of Marsden’s things are still lying around. Again, few pictures: mostly the victim himself, along with a couple of people who may or may not be related to him at all. One of the extras popped up in enough pictures to have warranted investigation: Gus’ diligent search, though, had only turned up a necrological.

Other than that, the apartment was clean, as is the University. Marsden liked rock music from the late nineties, even though he was old enough to have some musical taste already; he also enjoyed reading about historic discoveries, and was apparently a big fan of other men. None of that gives them a starting point: here, at the laboratory, Shawn is absolutely sure they will find nothing once again. Still worth a try, though; especially since he knows Gus is having such a miserable time. It’s always fun to make him squirm a little every once in a while.

To his surprise, his friend calls up to him just when he’s about to leave. Pointing to a corner table slightly more dusty than the rest, he mouths something without actually speaking. Shawn has to practically get into his lap to make out the words. 

“The briefcase, Shawn. It isn’t University equipment, and it does look like someone hid it on purpose.”

He’s right. Gus is usually right, in fact, though Shawn won’t admit it, even under torture. So he smirks, lets out an “I told you” and proceeds to pick up the offending briefcase.

It could be anyone’s. It isn’t even well-hidden; just thrown away under the hardly ever used table, as if whoever put it there wasn’t worried about it being found. It is probably a researcher’s; he still fiddles with it until it opens with a soft pop and caresses the soft leather before prying it open.

Lots of papers there. Some of them, filled with what looks like random handwritten letters and numbers - Gus insists it’s advanced mathematics or something equally silly -, he lets Gus take care of. The rest he studies himself. 

There are two sets of notes, distinctly written by two different people. If read backwards, there seems to be a conversation of sorts going on, like a penpal thing, only weird, because who needs to write things down when there are phones and, well, _talking_ is still an option.

He recognizes Marsden’s handwriting from a couple of notes he saw earlier at the apartment. Also, the fact that the other person keeps heading his notes with a “Dearest Arthur” kind of gives it away. The story seems to go as follows: a certain “Hector”, apparently a researcher here, started writing notes to an orderly after stalking him like crazy for weeks. That was almost half a year ago: Mr Marsden wasted no time in responding, and from what Shawn can see and what his imaginative brain is helpfully adding, they decided that leaving notes for one another in an old briefcase in the middle of the lab was both romantic and quite practical. They were probably time travellers, he decides: both calling and grabbing a coffee seem to him better ways of getting to know someone and _getting to know_ _someone_.

The love letters soon developed into a sort of extremely sick game of riddles, where the participants were actually _solving math problems_ , just for fun. Here and there, some personal details about both Marsden and Hector keep popping up: both like remarkably similar things, though Arthur is guarded and distrusting while the other man seems to secretly be a fifteen-year-old girl. Maybe that’s why, by the end, the notes take on a slightly different tone, with Arthur asking too many questions that go unanswered while he talks about their recent outings - it seems that, after all, both of them were human, and did go on dates and stuff even though they still felt the need to write down absolutely every thought that went through their heads.

“Something interesting?” Gus shakes his head before stilling.

“I’m not very good at this, Shawn, but it seems that- You know, there are at least two people writing these, and-”

“Yeah, they’re like extremely freaky love letters,” he explains. “Our friend Arthur was a bit weirder than I thought, but this guy seems to have been on the same page, at least-”

“Well, I don’t know which one’s Marsden’s, but one of them started making mistakes. Stupid, beginner’s mistakes, like not taking into account-”

“Spare me the specifics, bud. You know I try to avoid numbers as much as possible.”

He has Gus point out the offending math problems to him. According to his friend, it is not so much mathematics as advanced physics or something; it still looks like a jumble to him, but at least he’s able to tell Hector’s handwriting, and frowns.

“And he did everything else right?,” he asks. It all looks the same: if he actually took the time to try and understand, he’d probably be as bewildered as Gus, but it’d require effort. And, besides, that would leave his friend out of a job: Psych only needs a nerd on board.

“I mean, if you say he’s a researcher here- It’s weird. Like, the first few pages are full of theory, things one could memorize. He’s good, real good. But then Marsden starts actually solving problems, and the other guy - doesn’t.”

Huh. 

The last three notes are all written by Marsden. They grow increasingly angry: maybe he thought his nerdy soulmate was faking it. Maybe he confronted him, maybe-

There’s some noise not far away from the labs, and a voice calls out, asking whoever is there to show themselves. Gus freezes; Shawn, always prepared for this kind of eventuality, gets ready to run and leave his friend behind.


	2. Serial killers

“Someone’s in a good mood.”

Carlton makes a conscious effort to wipe the smile off his face, turn it into his usual frown, but it doesn’t quite work as expected. From her desk, O’Hara offers him a sly smirk and a wink, and he just knows that he’ll be subjected to a full-fledged interrogation before his lunch break.

He can’t bring himself to care that much, honestly. Today’s a good day, even though it’s Monday and, by definition, a pain. Lots of work the guys on the weekend shift didn’t feel like doing, silly pleasantries and an unhealthy amount of nosing on everybody’s part, as if knowing how anyone spent their weekend would make them less of a stranger.

Still, part of him _wants_ to tell Juliet about Hugh. Not that he will, but he toys with the idea anyway, if only to imagine her face, naughty glint in her eyes when he gets to the part where the other man actually _stayed the night_ , both of them tired and giddy and too old and worn to actually wait for the traditional third date to enjoy each other for a while.

Not even Spencer’s presence, that whirlwind of chaos and mayhem he brings everywhere, can spoil his day. He almost forgets himself in front of the psychic and lets out a laugh when he quips something to McNab, but manages to control his reactions in time. The officer reddens before laughing himself, amazed once more at how easily Shawn seems to guess every intimate detail of his life. If he didn’t know better, Carlton would also buy the psychic crap: as it is, he doesn’t even bother remarking its impossibility these days, content with just not playing Spencer’s game.

Today, though, he’d even be willing to give the man the benefit of the doubt, if only because he knows it’d be something that would throw Spencer off. So, he doesn’t react when the fake psychic starts with his usual antics, bringing a finger to his temple and letting out some nonsense that will probably help solve a case or two by the end of the week. He doesn’t even grumble, getting out a notebook instead with a resigned sigh while O’Hara immerses herself in the pantomime.

To his surprise, Spencer isn’t focusing on his cases this time. Instead, his eyes wander around the station to stop at Dobson’s half-hidden desk, and he points and screams loudly.

“Hector! Hector, how could you?”

Dobson, not used to all this circus, doesn’t stir at first. After a short silence, though - where Guster clears his throat and actually moves to the detective’s desk, making him look up and finally take notice -, he joins in the fun.

“What happened?”

“I can sense- I can see _numbers_. Many numbers. And- and a broken heart. Arthur Marsden is contacting me from the spirit world! He’s angry, he’s-”

There’s no groping in this vision, which should be surprising in and of itself, though nobody but Carlton seems to notice or care. Spencer limits his movements to a wild thrashing in the middle of the station, more similar to the first shows he put on, a couple of years ago, than to the handsy, uncomfortable ones he’s been intent on having lately. 

Being as he is out of the spotlight, and in a fairly good mood, Carlton allows himself to actually enjoy the show. Spencer is a pretty good actor: he knows how to captivate his audience, and if he didn’t just _know_ he’s lying, he’d probably be forced to admit that something supernatural is going on. The psychic is also not bad-looking, and not for the first time Carlton finds himself kind of staring discreetly. 

***

“Arthur Marsden’s spirit claims for vengeance! Hector! Hector, why did you have to do it?”

As far as visions go, it’s not his best job. But Dobson’s not as invested in all this as Jules and Lassie are: he can’t risk him not listening to him by making it entertaining. Still, it is kind of disappointing when the only reaction he gets from the detective is a slight nod and a quiet promise to look into it. It feels like rejection: way worse than Lassie’s rebuttals and attempts at discrediting him, or Jules’ bright enthusiasm.

Still, he’s done his job. With any luck, they’ll find Hector and Shawn will be able to forget all about Marsden and how he looks just like John Doe, that case nobody seems to be working on at the moment. Not that they have anything to go on: not even a thorough examination of the body has let Shawn know anything about the man, other than he’d been tied up and beaten before dying of asphyxiation. If Hector is found, and he reveals himself to be a spurned lover or a fearful fake professor at University who thought he was going to be exposed - his favourite theory this far -, he’ll be able to ignore that weird feeling in his gut that he’s missing _something_.

Once his vision is done, he and Gus move through the station, chatting here and there with the few officers that have time for them before approaching Jules’s desk. She beams at them from afar and actually stops working long enough to have a brief yet satisfying conversation about their respective weekends.

“Next Friday I’ll be going to the Comic Con,” she adds, and looks hopefully at Gus. “Are you showing up?”

Shawn sees the danger coming right away. They’re _starting_ : out of all the betrayals ever committed in the history of friendship, Gus’ monopolizing of Juliet through _comic books_ out of all possible topics has to be among the top ten. Not that his friend is trying anything with the blonde detective, but his presence is more than enough to distract her far too much. 

Shawn is not kidding himself: up close, he knows he loses much of the charm that draws people to him in the first place. One can only be charming and witty for so long before coming across as a smartass; coupled with his inability to bring out his serious side, he’s sort of known that his thing with Jules was doomed from the start. She likes him: he’s sure she still harbors a crush, but she knows him enough not to be fooled into _loving_ him. They’ve got nothing in common, apart from a similar fixation on justice and an unhealthy fondness for Lassiter; which sort of brings him to his second favourite detective in the station, and his weirdness today.

He has been observing Lassie long enough to be able to discern almost every possible mood the man can go through. Though it started as a wonderful way of learning new ways to piss him off, it has actually evolved into something of a hobby of his: like birdwatching, only actually interesting. And, just like an otorhinolaryngologist would feel when faced with a nearly extinct form of flamingo, he’d guess, he’s fascinated by what improbably seems like _happiness_ in Lassiter’s face.

True, the man still has his scowl firmly in place. He even scoffs a little at Shawn’s hasty retreat from NerdTown (population: two), which brings him to his desk. But there’s no heat behind it, and none of the definite rage that usually boils right under his skin every time he sees the psychic. But for the fact that it is utterly impossible, Shawn would even swear that Lassiter _waves_ at him.

“Morning, Lassafras! I see you’ve finally learned to relax and enjoy basking in the magnificent light that my presence brings to this dark corner of the station.” He smirks; surprisingly, Lassiter only lets out a small, tame growl.

“I’m busy, Spencer. It’s too early to start shooting.”

Has he-? Has he seriously tried to _joke_?

This requires further investigation.

***

Of course, it is only half an hour until Spencer’s presence kills his good mood. Still, it is impressive: he could swear the psychic’s been extra annoying today, almost trying to test him, see how far he’d let him go. As it turns out, not much.

He sometimes wishes the man would stop it. As entertaining as it can be when he gets to see it from the outside - it’s happened every now and then -, when directed at him, his clownish behaviour becomes exhausting to deal with. And it’s not as if he can’t actually be _normal_ . He’s proven it on occasion: he can even, dare he say, be _interesting_. It’s just, he’d guess, not as much fun for Shawn.

“So, what’s your secret, Lassiepants? Did you get your beauty sleep? Finally got to shoot some poor old lady? Did you get laid?” 

Spencer wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Carlton feels himself blush, if only slightly. He keeps his cool remarkably well, actually.

“None of your business, Spencer. Suffice to say, my mood can still improve considerably by throttling you right now.”

The psychic seems to take it as a challenge.

“Oh, dear, you say the nicest things! Shall we find somewhere private for that? I mean, I’m open to everybody’s kinks: we just need to establish a safeword of sorts, don’t you think? Safety first, all that.”

He scoffs. Breathes in and out, slowly. His fingers _itch_ to grab Spencer’s neck right now, to make good on his empty threat. Instead, he does his best to focus on the small amount of paperwork he still needs to fill before he’s called away on a case, thus stretching his hours even longer.

He can’t afford that. Not today.

Carlton makes it to the third half-filled form before he feels the psychic’s breath dangerously close to his neck. He jerks involuntarily, and with smug satisfaction feels the other man stumble back, biting a curse.

“Bad Lassie! You startled me!”

“You shouldn’t go around getting into people’s personal spaces,” he retorts; only when he sees the smirk on the psychic’s lips does he realize he’s actually responded, given him more ammunition.

“So, where should I be getting into, huh?”

“Mainly jail.”

It is all he can come up with. This banter has never been his strong point. It makes him nervous, having to search for words that will bite and still leave some room for Spencer to not go for the jugular. Because he will, as soon as he gets a small opening: he lives to humiliate Carlton, seems to make his day _every single time_. 

“Shawn, we’re leaving!”

Thank heaven for Guster, is what goes through Carlton’s head. Spencer still seems about to say something else, but his friend has apparently had enough of O’Hara - what those two actually get to talk about, he’ll never know -, and so he has suddenly been reminded of his mythical other job somewhere far away from the station. Lucky him.

He watches the two go, Spencer whining while he throws a couple of glances back in what Carlton’s sure is his direction. They’re subtle enough, and for once do not seem mocking nor even condescending, but puzzled. 

Once they’re gone, he raises his head in O’Hara’s direction. His partner has busied herself and is hastily scribbling page after page of reports nobody will read. His own pile of paperwork is significantly smaller: for about a second, he considers snatching away some of hers, just so she won’t be cranky over lunch. But then he remembers he actually has plans, for a change, and so he stops himself.

***

They’re called to the Chief’s office right before their lunch break. With a sigh, Juliet stops what she’s doing, glances at her watch, and mentally prepares herself for a couple more hours without food. 

Not even Carlton’s uncharacteristic good mood can survive the briefing. Chief Vick makes them sit down; they’re not alone, and neither Dobson nor Ramirez look happy to be there. Juliet has never worked directly with them before, most of her cases being led by Carlton and having a big enough team of officers under their command, along with their psychic consultants. It doesn’t pay to have too many detectives working on a single case: this, however, seems to be the exception.

“Any word on our John Doe yet?”

The Chief’s first question is met with a negative on Juliet’s part and a shrug on Carlton’s. She seems to expect it: if they’d found anything, they would have reported. Juliet is pretty sure they’re the ones who most often cross the door to her office, mainly because of Shawn’s need to show off to her directly. 

“Nothing’s come up,” Jules adds for good measure. The Chief nods, hands them a couple of file folders.

“Detectives Dobson and Ramirez took care of Mr Marsden’s death,” she tells them. The two detectives seem distinctly uncomfortable at this. There seems to be a small reproach in the Chief’s voice, though she says nothing directly. “New - evidence has come up. It makes us suspect that his death may be related to that of your John Doe and, well. Look at the file.”

The third folder is old, probably from ten to twelve years ago. It’s marked as unsolved, but there’s enough material inside to keep them both busy for a while. 

The first thing Juliet notices is how remarkably similar all three men look. Arthur Marsden - hasn’t Shawn said something about him today? - is perhaps the tallest of the three, but the other two come quite close. Dark hair, blue eyes, all three pale and lanky and with a _something_ she can’t quite name, but that feels a bit like sadness. She’s good at noticing those things: the wrinkles on their foreheads, the lack of laughing lines. Some of the pictures, the ones from before they were found, show them smiling: it looks unfamiliar to them, an alien gesture they’re still trying to get used to. 

They don’t have anything like that on their John Doe, but she’d swear it’d be similar. Even their faces look vaguely alike, all three far from being traditionally handsome, but quite attractive anyway. Discreetly, her gaze climbs up until it’s resting on her partner’s expression. Carlton’s gone slightly pale: nobody in the room is thick enough not to notice the similarities.

“This guy’s got a type,” they hear Dobson say. Juliet nods.

The deaths were all violent, brought by rage, but it seems that the killer took precautions both before and after the fact. Both the oldest file - a Thomas Knick, Santa Barbara native and notorious spokesperson for LGBTQ+ rights; his death had been ruled a hate crime and left at that - and their John Doe’s one show the corpses in all their glory. They’d been bound, beaten, raped. No DNA, though, nothing to bring them closer to their killer, steer them in the right direction. No clear spiritual leads, either, if Shawn’s inability to tell them anything about John Doe is anything to go by.

Juliet can’t help but look away from the pictures as soon as it’s appropriate to do so. Her eyes wander around the room: Dobson and Ramirez both look a bit sheepish, having probably been scolded by the Chief for dismissing Marsden’s death so quickly. The Chief herself is very obviously worried: they haven’t had to deal with _this_ since the whole Yang fiasco, and they’re not ready for a redo. Things are going to get out of hand very quickly: both the press and the Mayor’s office will jump at her as soon as anyone even mouths the words “serial killer”. 

Her partner, though, is the one that worries her. Carlton’s going over the files slowly, reading every little bit he can find, trying to guess and notice something, anything, that they may have overlooked. To anyone else, he may just look focused, but Juliet knows him well enough to see past his frown, lips pursed as if the mere act of scrunching up his face and looking deep in thought is going to help him _see_. Slowly, trying not to make much of it, she squeezes his shoulder. He does relax a little.

“I think it is obvious that we have a- a series of connected cases here.” Chief Vick doesn’t dare name what they actually _have_ . She pinches the bridge of her nose with her fingers, directs an almost pleading look towards Juliet. “I want all of you _discreetly_ working on it. On them. Make sure to report absolutely all progress back to me, is that clear?”

She nods, wetting her lips as well as she can with a nervous tongue. She wants to ask, though it may not be the time. Karen notices, and nods in her direction.

“Gentlemen, you are dismissed. Get to work. O’Hara, please stay.”

The three men leave, Lassiter still clutching the files and Ramirez looking less than sure in his step. Neither he nor Dobson got really involved in the Yang chase, yet they both probably remember everything that went down. Juliet sure does.

“Chief,” she starts. The older woman lets out a sight, makes sure that the door is closed before turning to her.

“Tell me. Come on.”

She’s thought about it. Juliet should have known: she’s not blind, yet she still summoned both of them to her office.

“I don’t think it’s a great idea that Carlton-”

“I know.”

“I mean, he looks just like, like _them_ ,” she states, and the Chief nods again. “And, and when we had the Yang- thing, he-”

“He reacted well. He’s been trained for this, O’Hara. You should know: you’ve gone through the same. Empathy’s all and well, but I expect my detectives, especially my Head Detective, to be- able to keep his cool. You should trust him, O’Hara.”

She does. She really does. It’s just that she herself can’t help but imagine him when she sees the others. She knows if the roles were reversed, she’d be furious at him for trying to get her out of the case, but she still needs to _try_. 

“Besides, he _is_ the best I’ve got. And we need this- we need to take this guy off the streets as soon as possible, Juliet.”

The use of her first name is what tips her off that the Chief knows more than she’s letting on. That there’s something else at play here. She raises her head, questioningly. Karen takes a breath; then, apparently deciding to go all in, she speaks.

“It may not even be our case much longer,” she confesses. “There are some- suspect victims in other places. Some in Ventura. One in Lompoc. It seems our killer’s been moving around a lot.”

It’s Juliet’s turn to nod. She bites her lip, stands up.

“We’ll get him, Chief,” she says at last. “Don’t worry.”

She’s about to leave when the Chief’s voice gets to her. 

“O’Hara.” She turns, sees the older woman’s tired gaze. “It may help, bringing Mr Spencer in on this case. Officially, I mean. Please, see to it yourself.”


	3. Peace offerings

Carlton gets out a bit later than he’d planned. He has barely enough time to go home and shower before there’s a knock at his door. All the better: it prevents him from thinking, mulling over things he’d rather leave at work. 

Hugh’s holding a couple of bags when he opens up. He’s greeted with a broad smile and a wink, an appreciative look at his still damp hair and half-buttoned shirt.

“I think I got here right on time,” the other man tells him. 

He kisses him when they get to the kitchen, and the gesture feels intimate, wonderfully ordinary. No wet, passionate making out: that will come later, he’s sure. It’s just a way of saying hello, barely a peck, and it is so natural that he doesn’t even register it’s happened until much later.

Hugh tells him about his day while they grab a beer and set up the table. He’s working on a new project, he says: he’s been at UC Santa Barbara for no longer than half a year, and things are still kind of coming together. After trying to explain to Carlton some of the things he plans on doing - and failing miserably: he’s never had a mind for science -, he finally gives up and asks him about the station.

That’s when it all comes back to him. The pictures, the three men who look so much like him that he keeps picturing himself in their place without even trying. For about a second, he thinks he’ll tell Hugh about them. But he can sort of imagine how that one would go: a scoff, an uncomfortable laugh, the sudden realization that he’s dating a paranoid, work-obsessed cop with a penchant for believing himself at the very center of things. A bland excuse not to ever see each other again, too. So he breathes slowly, forces out a smile and a shrug.

“You know, everyday stuff. We had a visit from our local psychic. Not that that’s exactly unusual.”

That seems to get Hugh’s attention. He can’t believe the police would employ a _psychic_ of all things, he admits; something about the way he says the word has Carlton laughing out loud, and before he knows it Hugh’s hands have taken up the task of sliding up and down his torso, tickling and teasing, while the other man laughs with him.

“It's nice,” he hears him say. “Seeing you, I don’t know. You seemed so serious when I met you.”

It’s barely been a week. It feels like forever.

***

“C’mon, Gus, don’t be a half-munched bacon sandwich in my-”

“Shawn, I said no. N-O. Not now, not ever. You already got me to break into that UC building-”

“And Marsden’s apartment. We broke in there,” he reminds his best friend. Gus huffs indignantly. 

“We didn’t break in. We talked to the landlord. He gave you the keys, remember?”

Shawn smirks in a way that lets his friend know that he may or may not have picked the man’s pocket once he got denied access. Gus does his best not to notice.

“In any case, this is way different. He’s going to kill us. And by that I mean he’s going to kill _you,_ because I in no way am taking part on this suicide mission.”

“Man, you’re making it sound like we’re _sayonaras-”_

“Kamikazes.”

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

There’s a short silence between them, one in which Shawn is tempted to admit that maybe, just maybe, he’s not doing this for the hell of it. Or to irritate Lassiter, though it’d be fun to try that again at some other time, let the detective see him lurking around. Once things are back to normal again.

They got Juliet’s call a couple of hours ago. His friend hiring Psych is not new: if it were up to her, Jules would bring them in on about every case. Shawn does feel a little bad about that; she should be doing what he’s doing herself, learning how to trust her own eyes and instincts instead of his. Still, it pays the bills, and it makes Gus happy; and best of all, he gets to rub in his dad’s face that he’s _technically_ working with the police. Just like Henry always wanted.

This call, though, was one he didn’t want. He sort of knew it was coming, has in fact been working with Gus on the Marsden murder just so that the police will connect the dots. He still would’ve liked not to know anything else about the case. He’s not ready to go through this all again.

“Gus, I’m _begging_ you. You know it’s going to be fun. He won’t spot us, and we’ll get to see what sort of funky pajamas he wears when he goes to sleep. Don’t you want to picture Lassie in, I don’t know, kitty cat PJ’s?”

Wrong thing to say, he realizes now. His friend makes a disgusted sound and shakes his head. 

“Honestly, Shawn, I’m starting to think your obsession with the man is getting out of hand.”

Shawn huffs at that.

“I’m not obsessed! You’re obsessed!”

He’s not, really. He’s observant: it isn’t the same. It’s not as if he’s ever spent much time watching Lassiter go about his life. He may have followed him here and there, especially that one time following the awkward encounter at Tom Blair’s. And a few weeks after the Drimmer fiasco, and possibly a day or three after he found out about that dinner date with former Mrs Lassie. But it was still out of concern for the man’s well-being: he’s had it rough there for a few months, maybe years. 

Anyway, this time it really is different. Jules has called, has hired them and has very obviously let them know, using a code apparently Gus doesn’t understand, that she is in fact a bit worried about how all this is going to affect Lassie. True; she didn’t say her partner’s name, but Shawn’s, and she did so when talking to one very indignant Burton Guster, who can’t truly believe that the SBPD would go and put them in a serial killer’s path again. But still.

“Shawn, listen to me: we are _not_ going to follow Lassiter around. The man’s old enough to take care of himself, not to mention paranoid enough to shoot us on sight.” Gus’ tone admits no rebuttal. Shawn speaks up anyway.

“And I’m telling you, we _have to_ -”

“The killer’s not targeting _him_ , Shawn!”

It is getting harder over the years to get Gus to lose control. He may do it when in danger, run away screaming or snap at Shawn or even threaten to leave Psych and Santa Barbara altogether, hole up somewhere his best friend won’t ever find him again. Which means that he must be nervous, which means that he _is_ worried, too. Only maybe not about Lassiter.

“He’s not targeting _me,_ for that matter,” he tells Gus softly. _Not this time_.

They shouldn’t have taken the case. They should have told Juliet “no thank you, not interested”. She wouldn’t have pushed it. She may not know about the Yang nightmares, may not have had to stay up with him until he calmed down over the phone, but he’s sure she wouldn’t have pushed it.

“This isn’t Yang, buddy.” Shawn tries to sound reassuring: it doesn’t work. 

“I know. But it could be- I don’t think you’re ready, Shawn. You’ve got a tendency to draw trouble to yourself. If this killer, I mean. He may not even be _here_ anymore: Jules told us he’s been in other cities, too. Maybe-”

Shawn lets out a slow breath, shrugs. Gus is right - not about the killer having skipped town, he suspects, but about how this could turn almost as ugly as any of their other cases. 

“Just. Okay. I won’t do anything stupid, like staying out all night watching Lassie’s door in case something happens. But- But I want to make sure he’s okay, alright? Just-”

“A visit. That’s fine. A late-night visit to a colleague: that we can do. But we go, we get in, say hi, get out, Shawn. No stakeouts, no lurking around after dark without backup. Deal?”

He takes it. It is the best he’s gonna get from Gus tonight.

***

They’ve almost made it to bed when there’s a knock on the door. Hugh lets out a groan when Carlton stops nibbling at his neck, but straightens up his clothes and hurriedly makes him presentable for when he opens, ready to glare at whoever’s decided to pop up this late.

Carlton’s expression freezes, though, when he finds himself face to face with both Spencer and Guster. He’s suddenly too aware of the rumpled state of his shirt, his lack of tie and the way his hair sticks up in different directions. He even blushes a little, finds himself out of words and out of breath when Guster offers up what seems to be a tub of ice-cream.

“Peace offering,” he hears the man say. Instinctively, he gets out of the way as both of them breach his door. He hears Spencer mention something about interrupting, but he’s still half in shock and can’t get himself to react as quickly as he should.

Which is why he comes back to his living room to find an awkwardly seated Hugh looking up at him as if waiting for an explanation. Spencer, as always, sort of expands rapidly, seeming to fill all of Carlton’s apartment with his sole, overwhelming presence. He plops down next to Hugh, offers him a hand to shake.

“Shawn Spencer, Head Psychic for the SBPD and former model,” he introduces himself. Dumbstruck, Hugh can do little but shake his hand, still giving Carlton helpless looks while the detective shrugs.

“ _Foot_ model, Shawn,” Guster points out. “And I think that maybe- this was a bad idea?”

He throws a questioning glance at Carlton, who feels somewhat thankful that at least one of the two dickheads has figured it out. That way, Guster can be the one to suggest that they leave. Spencer always has a harder time ignoring his friend than he does Lassiter.

“Ice-cream, a bad idea? Nuh-huh, don’t think so.” Bright, charming smile, no respect for anyone’s boundaries, expansive presence: Carlton is quite sure that the moment is coming for Hugh to stand up and make an excuse, any excuse, to leave forever. In that case, he decides, he’s going to _kill_ the psychic, probably after making him scream for hours.

Instead of panicking, though, Hugh seems to be starting to accept this new turn in their evening. He offers a weak smile to both Spencer and Guster, introducing himself to them and asking about the flavor of ice-cream they decided to bring.

It is nothing short of miraculous, in Carlton’s book, that nobody points out the obvious after that. 

Guster glances at his watch every once in a while, obviously dying to get out of there. Inwardly, Carlton keeps thanking him, even though it doesn’t make any difference: Spencer has decided he likes Hugh, and is doing everything in his hand to engage the scientist. He asks him about his job and his life before Santa Barbara, about the places he has already visited and how many Skittles he can fit in his mouth at any given time. He does not, however, ask him about his being at Carlton’s apartment. He doesn’t, in fact, mention Carlton at all other than to talk about their professional link. It is a weird situation, something out of TV.

***

He didn’t expect _this_. Not the flustered Lassie, nor the way his cheeks redden when they let themselves in and are instantly spotted; and obviously not the man sitting down on the detective’s couch. 

Hugh seems- nice. He talks in a pleasant voice, isn’t half bad-looking, and smiles quite often and quite broadly. He also keeps looking at Lassiter in what is at first a silent cry for help but turns into amusement soon enough. There’s a surprise: Shawn would have never imagined that Lassie would have such normal-looking friends hidden away.

Interestingly, the detective himself seems to be at such a loss at what exactly is happening that he doesn’t even bother yelling at them. He’s a terrible host, of course, with Gus having to find enough spoons and bowls for everybody at Shawn’s insistence; but, other than that, he’s fine. Doesn’t even glare at Shawn more than a couple of times, too busy trying to catch up with what is going on in his own living room. 

Gus insists that they should leave after barely half an hour; Shawn manages to put it back for another fifteen minutes. He’s talking to Hugh, learning a lot about his stay in Lompoc a few years ago. It seems like a nice place to be in, once he gets tired of Santa Barbara.

“I tend to move away every few years. Work, you know,” the man is saying. Shawn can relate. “Also, it is hard to stay someplace forever when you don’t have a real reason to.”

He looks up at Lassie at that, and Shawn’s gaze follows his. The older man is blushing a bit, and he clears his throat as if to get some weight off that statement. 

“Spencer, I really think you should-”

At almost the same time, Gus taps on his watch for the uptenth time. 

“We really need to _leave_ , Shawn,” he pointedly says. With a sigh, the psychic stands up, leaving his half-empty bowl on the table and getting a smudge of chocolate goodness on it. 

“Yeah, I guess it’s about time. Sorry, Lassie; next time we’ll stay longer,” he adds before following his friend out of the door.

Once outside, Gus lets out a relieved sigh and glares at him as if he’d done something wrong.

“I told you we shouldn’t have come,” he mumbles. Fishing in his pocket for the Blueberry’s keys, he guides Shawn through the building’s crowded lot. The psychic shrugs.

“He didn’t shoot us.”

“We still shouldn’t have come, Shawn! They were very obviously-! You _know_!”

That makes Shawn pause, shake his head.

“Gus, we’re talking about Lassie. Macho-man, grumpy cop, straight out of a noir film, only more ridiculous. That’s not-”

Oh. 

That actually makes a lot of sense. That is, except for the whole 'Lassie being with a man' thing. Or the 'someone _actually wanting to be with Lassie '_ bit. 

“You think we interrupted something?,” he asks, only half-mockingly. His friend grumbles.

“What do you think, Shawn?”

Tricky question. At any given time, Shawn’s thinking about a hundred things at once, most of them related to either food or _The Breakfast Club_. Or Val Kilmer. 

Right now, though, what is mainly occupying his mind is the fact that this, somehow, completely skipped his radar. That Lassie has been _hiding_ something from him, has actually managed to surprise him. 

Below that first, somewhat life-changing thought lies another, this one focused on Hugh. Nice enough dude, more than adequately charming and sociable, all-around suspicious in light of the new developments. A man like that, he tells himself, wouldn’t hang around with a bitter, world-weary cop, even if said cop seemed to be way less gloomy than usual tonight. And there’s something else, something he can’t quite put his finger on, that makes him- _wrong_ , somehow.

Even further away in his mind, buried deep so as to keep being unnoticed, there’s a third train of thought he does his best not to dwell on. Lassie’s with a _man_. Big ol’ Lassiter, the same guy who has sometimes, and despite his best judgement, shown up in a couple of Shawn’s never-acknowledged dreams. It opens up a whole new can of worms, one he’s going to do his damnedest not to look into.

“Well, at least now we know who to blame when Lassie goes missing,” he jokes. Gus doesn’t seem to find it funny. In fact, he does look at him with a sort of smug expression, opening up the car’s doors and getting inside quickly.

“He’s not going to go missing, Shawn. Though it wouldn’t be _weird_ if he's late for work.” There’s a smirk on Gus’ face, one that makes Shawn suddenly uncomfortable. Getting into the Blueberry, he does his best not to react in any way for a while. Only when they’re halfway home does he speak again.

“Still, there was something _fishy_ about that Hugh guy, did you notice?”

Again that smugness in Gus’ face, his lips twisting in what is obviously him trying to control himself. 

“Nothing fishy at all about him. Though, you know, I’m pretty sure I’d find a way not to like him, too, in your position.”

Shawn’s about to ask him what, exactly, is supposed to be his position, but thinks better of it. 

“You know I’m good at reading people. That guy has something, Gus.”

“Yeah. Just like Luntz, remember him? Remember that date you spoiled for Jules? Because she sure does, Shawn. And Lassiter’s a lot more trigger-happy than she is.”

With that, the conversation’s over. Gus keeps smirking all the way to the Psych office, while Shawn tries his best not to bring up the topic again. Whatever it is his friend is trying to tell him - he’s not going to take the bait. 

***

All in all, Hugh takes it all with a pinch of salt. He laughs when Spencer leaves, helps Carlton put the bowls away before kissing him and sliding his hands, now cold, under his shirt. 

“Where were we?,” he coyly asks. It doesn’t take long for them to get back to where they were, though there’s a strange aftertaste in Carlton’s mouth that has nothing to do with the ice-cream.

They fall into bed easily, Hugh on top, straddling him and biting him playfully before taking his own shirt off, unbuttoning Carlton’s. There are a few more kisses, wet and hot and longer than he thought possible, and then Hugh’s mouth trails over his neck and goes down his chest. The younger man’s tongue laps at his nipples before he closes his teeth over them, drawing out a moan that’s more surprised than aroused.

“You’ve got-?”

Carlton nods, panting. Hugh takes hold of his hair awkwardly, short as it is, while his mouth makes its way even lower; he breathes over his still fully covered cock, making him gasp.

“Where?”

“Bedside table. Second drawer,” he manages.

It is easy, giving up control to him, here. Hugh makes him raise for a second, tugs at his unbuttoned shirt so that the sleeves roll up, not undoing the cuffs. He twists the cloth, bunched around his raised arms, until it softly but effectively restrains his wrists before pushing him back onto the bed. He kisses him on the jaw, tells him to wait while he goes through his drawers, coming back to him with a naughty smile and the lube and condoms.

Hugh’s fucking him slowly, much more so than he’d like, than he _needs_ at the moment, when he speaks again. 

“I really, really like you, you know?” Not exactly what he was expecting, but it’s not as if Carlton’s used to hearing similar things on a daily basis. He nods, focuses on thrusting his hips back and forth. He’s not sure Hugh sees him, though: he’s laying on his belly, head half buried in his pillow and arms uncomfortably stretched in front of him, so he makes an effort to put that nod into words.

“I- I like you, too.” Hugh’s thrusts faster into him, burying himself deeper and _almost_ hitting his sweet spot. It’s driving Carlton crazy: the man has an inhuman and completely unfair amount of self-control. 

The next question comes up as unexpectedly as the first. Hugh’s voice is strained: he’s starting to lose it.

“So, these- guys. Spencer, was it? And-”

“Guster.”

He almost laughs. Not even in his most bizarre nightmares could he have imagined he’d be saying that name during sex. Hugh, however, doesn’t seem to find it all that funny.

“That’s it. Do they- come often? Do you guys- hang out a lot?” He hasn’t stopped, though he’s pounding into him faster, more violently. Carlton’s cock throbs, cruelly left to its own devices, and he tries to find some friction on the towel below. 

“What?” This is a conversation he’d rather not have right now. Or ever, really- he’s never considered Guster _or_ Spencer to be anything more than a sometimes useful annoyance, but part of him, he guesses, finds them tolerable enough to tentatively classify them as - if only barely - friends.

“Never mind. It’s- Gosh, you’re hot, honey.”


	4. All talk, some action

Dobson and Ramirez haven’t made any progress on the serial killer’s case. There are good news, though - at least the press hasn’t found out about it yet. It won’t be long before they do, of course: Juliet’s sure of it.

Still, they’re doing their best. She has read the reports over a dozen times, as has Carlton; she’s also warned Shawn, and even though Gus isn’t exactly happy that they’re calling them about 'yet another psycho', as he put it, they’re willing to help. 

Every resource they can pour into it, she thinks, they will. A case like this, and not even a year after their big Yang thing, tends to seep into everyone’s lives, making them all sloppy, restless, inefficient.

Carlton, for example, seems a bit off today. He keeps shifting on his chair, grunting and getting out for a stroll around the station far more often than he usually does. He’s even offered to bring her coffee, which must be a first; he’s forgotten to ask her for money, too.

The morning passes by quite quickly, almost in a blur. Her current Big Case gets mixed with other, smaller things she also has to take a look at. A hit and run they’ve almost closed, a missing child - top priority but for the serial killer on the loose -, tons of paperwork and an upcoming trial she really needs to prepare for. She’s so busy up until her lunch break she doesn’t even get to talk to her partner.

They make a run for it at about one thirty. Her stomach is grumbling - she didn’t have a good breakfast either when she left for work this morning. Carlton’s is more subdued, though he still orders steak and fries, which he promptly spends the next half hour tearing apart without ever really eating. Any other day, she would have noticed sooner: as it is, Juliet doesn’t even think about it.

“So, I think we may yet find something. I’ve got a good feeling: I called Shawn and he’s working on it, you know. I’ll ask him to come by tomorrow.”

Carlton is awfully quiet even when it comes to the topic of Shawn. Which should probably raise all of Juliet’s alarms: complaining about the psychic is easily her partner’s favourite pastime. Still, she’s far too preocuppied today to notice; after a while, she herself falls silent, ready to get back to work.

***

It doesn’t make sense.

Gus has been at Central Coast all morning, only calling at around eleven to make sure he’s woken up. Shawn should probably be more offended that his friend doesn’t think he’s capable of setting up his own alarm, but he has more pressing matters at hand.

He’s actually been awake for longer than he’d intended. Much to his chagrin, his brain seems completely unable to shut off, his thoughts running in circles and coming back to the same stupid conclusions every time.

No: it doesn’t make any sense.

It's not like Shawn's a _bigot_. He’s lived everywhere and nowhere, from San Francisco to rural Kentucky, with a short stay in NYC for good measure. He’s met all kinds of people, learned to understand and empathise with almost anyone. For heaven’s sake, he’s even able to feel for people like Yang. So it shouldn’t be this hard, he thinks, to actually _be okay_ with this. 

He likes men. Okay, that’s a lie: he’s never liked men, never even felt the need to look at them twice. Still doesn’t, for the most part. Imagining Gus with his clothes off does nothing for him, and just thinking about McNab’s junk can make him lose sleep for a week, and not in a good way. But he _likes_ Lassiter, grumpy and violent and unbearable as he is. He’s always had a soft spot for the man, has done things for him - the ungrateful bastard - that he wouldn’t have ever done for Gus, which really does say something.

Shawn Spencer, psychic extraordinaire, is self-aware enough to know he’s going to have to reevaluate his worldview after owning up to this. Which is probably why he’s so reticent to do so, why he’s been sitting on his bed for at least four hours mulling over something he doesn’t want to even _think about_ , much less say out loud. Much _much_ less actually act upon.

He’s never liked men. Women, sure, of all sizes and types; he’s wooed waitresses and the odd heiress; wild, Myra-ish foreign gals dying to try the American dream; shy scholars and party animals. He’s dated here and there, never thinking about the future, never sticking to someone for more than he’s stuck to a place. To be honest, his most stable relationship has probably been his latest fling with Abigail Lytar - which he’s been clinging to even though it’s been almost three weeks since the last time he even called her. As his father’s often told him, he’s a quitter: which makes it quite freaky that he’s chosen Lassiter, of all people, to rethink his own sexuality. The man’s like a hound: he can easily imagine him tailing _Hugh_ \- tailing _Shawn_ -, faithful and stubborn and so intense it’s scary. That’s like the polar opposite of everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s carefully been steering his life into. 

Also, he’s a _man_.

He may be having a freakout.

***

He’s freaking out. He has _reasons to_ , too: it’s not like he’s being excessively paranoid. Not this time.

They know. Spencer and Guster have been to his house, have met Hugh; they know about them, and it’s taken Carlton almost all night to actually realize that tiny bit of information could actually turn his life upside down. 

He’s doing his best to stay calm. It’s not like Spencer’s going to do _anything_ about it. He trusts the man. As much as one can trust a lying, immature conman; which, all in all, is not much.

“You seem tired.” 

He’s woken up with Hugh’s limbs tangled around him, the younger man’s stubble tickling his back. It’s a good feeling, the warmth of having another body next to his, and for about a minute he wonders if it would really be so bad, having Spencer flapping his mouth around the station. He can imagine good-natured teasing on his part, maybe a bit of nudging, a wink here and there, and _so many_ sausage references.

But then common sense kicks in. He’d be _out_ . At the station. He’d be _the_ queer cop - even though that isn’t exactly true -, the walking Village People reference. The mere thought sends shivers down his spine. Every time he’d give an order, every moment he’d spend trying to do his job - _they’d_ be snickering, laughing behind his back, judging him like he’s judged himself, his mum, everyone else. 

The first guy he ever had sex with, a forty-something insurance broker with a wife and two small children, had had that same fear when it came to him. That Carlton would somehow _expose_ him, that he’d let everyone know what they were doing behind closed doors. He’d admitted it to him, too: he was scared he’d lose everything, but most of all he was terrified that he’d _become_ this. There weren’t many suits out and about back then. Not if they had some ambition left.

Okay, so maybe things _have_ changed since then. Maybe he’s old-fashioned and fearful - even his mother’s been able to come out, after all. Maybe he should stop thinking it over, enjoy the half hour he still has before he starts getting ready for work.

As if hearing his thoughts, Hugh plants a small, wet kiss on his neck, and Carlton lets out a contented sigh. Soon the younger man’s leaving a trail down his back, lips softly caressing his skin while his hands reach up to his chest.

“Shit.”

It’s seven thirty before he even checks the alarm; with a frustrated groan, Carlton breaks away from the other man. He still needs to shower: the last thing he wants is to be late for work, having to answer questions he can only hope nobody will pose, ever. 

“Do you really have to go?” 

He nods, and Hugh splays himself over the bed, legs playfully opening while he leers at Carlton. Checking himself and keeping a smile from spreading over his face, he kisses the younger man on the forehead before heading for the shower.

“I’ve got to work. It’s Tuesday.”

He hears Hugh speak just as he’s crossing the bathroom door.

“Then we should meet this weekend. My house this time.”

He frowns, gets back to his bedroom. There’s something in the other man’s voice that makes the apparently simple statement feel life-changing. Frowning, he nods.

“Of course. Yeah, right.”

Hugh has got out of the bed, is dressing himself with yesterday’s clothes. He looks up at him in frank adoration, as if Carlton’s done something major just right now. 

“Great,” he says softly. “I’ll get everything ready.” Not much to prepare, in the detective’s opinion, but he doesn’t tell Hugh that. The other man seems excited. “You know, it’s- You’re going to think it’s silly, but you’re the first guy that I’ve invited over in a long time.”

A warm feeling makes its way to Carlton’s chest, making his cheeks blush as he leans over and kisses Hugh slowly, passionately. Suddenly, being late to work doesn’t seem such a big deal.

***

She’s on her fourth cup of coffee when Ramirez shows up at her desk. Things are _not_ going well: the Chief’s been there twice already, barking at people and basically stealing Carlton’s personality for a while. It makes Juliet think that the press are not so far from finding out about their killer as she would’ve liked: she may see something about it on the news soon enough. 

In any case, they’re doing as much as they can. Shawn hasn’t found anything: apparently, the murdered men’s spirits are not too chatty. And the best they’ve got from the coroner’s office is the confirmation that, at least in John Doe’s and Knick’s case, the victims had been drugged before being beaten, and that their rapes had occurred post-mortem. It may not be much of a consolation, but Juliet will take anything she can get. The deaths are horrifying enough as it is.

“So, what’s new?,” she asks. She still tries to give some spark to her voice, make herself seem half as chipper as her usual self, but she’s not sleeping well these days. There’s an annual review coming in a few weeks, and for whatever reason Carlton’s been sloppier than usual, his mind somewhere else. Not that her partner is one to jump at the chance to do more than his share of paperwork, but at least she doesn’t usually have to double check everything he writes.

“We found John Doe’s wallet. Somewhere in Montecito: that’s apparently where he lived,” he tells her. His moustache trembles slightly when he lets out a heavy breath. “The name’s Jim Alcon; it seems he was an electrician. Dobson’s been there to inform the wife.”

Juliet frowns, but doesn’t ask. Ramirez says it anyway.

“They’ve been separated for nearly four years. She knows about his- preferences.” Juliet really doesn’t like the way he says it, but she’s too focused on the information to really care about her coworkers’ biases. “Said he’d been meeting with a guy, a Horatio something. Apparently works at UC Santa Barbara, but they don’t have anything in their database matching the description Alcon gave her.”

It figures, she guesses, that it wouldn’t be that easy. Their killer’s smart enough to use different names, though apparently not different jobs. The infamous Hector Shawn’s spirits had warned him about had also claimed to work at the same university. It’s not enough to actually give them something to go on, but it should probably tell her something about the murderer’s personality. Maybe he’s a student, or has always dreamed of working there. Or maybe it’s just that college professors are sexy.

Okay, she may be projecting a little.

She goes to Carlton as soon as Ramirez leaves.

“We’ve got an ID on our John Doe,” she tells him. It takes him a few nanoseconds to raise his head in her direction, which is both weird and extremely worrying. He looks tired and a bit worse for the wear, but hasn’t complained at all in a couple of days. Now that she thinks about it, he hasn’t even growled at anyone since Monday, though he’s been carefully avoiding everybody, so skillful at it it’s taken her almost two whole days to notice.

“Good. That’s good. Anything useful?,” he asks, his tone so _normal_ it pisses her off just a bit. That’s what she really hates about Carlton: he’s far too proud to let her see him even slightly down, much less to actually tell her something’s wrong. Even when it obviously is. 

“Not much. Dobson and Ramirez are on it: they’ve talked to the wife. Ex-wife, really,” she adds. She takes the chance to study her partner: outside of being paler than usual and having darker bags under his eyes, the only telling signs that something’s worrying him is the way he carries himself. Juliet doubts anyone at the station has noticed, but she’s always had an eye for that kind of thing, not to mention a probably unhealthy obsession with becoming Carlton Lassiter’s friend and confidant. She’s pretty sure she’s gotten closer than anyone else on that front.

“Everything alright, Carlton?”

She doesn’t expect an answer, not really. Maybe a sideways glance at the copies of the dead men’s reports, or a grumbled order to mind her own business, at most. But Carlton actually looks just about to talk before he shakes his head.

“It’s- nothing, really.” She arches a brow, crosses her arms under her breasts, and waits. Given enough time, she can even get _him_ to crumble. 

Carlton actually caves in earlier than she’d have expected, if by ‘caving in’ one interprets ‘saying nothing and being vague enough that she’s unable to tell what the hell was all that about’.

“I, actually, I think- Times really have changed, right? I mean, things are- different. Maybe not so much here, but still. Thanks for stopping by, O’Hara.”

Shrugging, she lets it go. One day, Juliet swears she’s going to tie Carlton Lassiter up and force him to have a _real_ , _honest conversation_ with her.

***

It’s Thursday afternoon when Spencer comes back to the station. Carlton’s been sort of dreading his presence ever since that disastrous Monday evening: the psychic, however, doesn’t seem to be in the mood for trouble. It still doesn’t hurt to be thorough, is what the detective tells himself as he stands up, glances at his watch and decides that it’s about time for lunch. 

“Spencer,” he greets. The other man smiles, though it lacks a certain vividness, and Carlton’s stomach flips. “Come with me. We’re having lunch.”

He feels his throat dry when he speaks, all command gone from his voice. It comes out weak, feeble, almost pleading, though the other man doesn’t seem to notice. 

“A bit early for that, isn’t it?”

Instead of answering, he grabs Spencer’s arm and pulls before realizing what he’s doing. _Stop it, Carlton_. He wants, needs the psychic to be in a good mood. He can’t afford to rile him up this time.

So he lets go, tries to smile instead, just like he’s seen O’Hara do a thousand times. It works way better when it’s her doing it, though: judging by Spencer’s expression, he better stick to his usual areas of expertise.

“I’m actually not all that hungry, Lassie. I just came to talk to the Chief and Jules and-”

Great. First time in history that the man has come in to actually _work,_ and it had to be today. Hating himself for what he’s about to do, Carlton purses his lips and counts to three very quickly so as not to think better of it.

“Please, Spencer.”

It hurts. It physically hurts; it’s a blow to his ego, though he says it low enough and fast enough that it’s highly improbable that someone else will hear it. It stills Spencer, which is what he was aiming for, and just when he thinks the man’s going to comply, he shakes Carlton’s hand off his shoulder, a loud “no” coming out of his lips.

Half the station is looking at them, now. So much for subtlety.

Gritting his teeth, Carlton tries again. This cannot get much more humiliating, he thinks, though he obviously knows it _can_. In fact, he’s trying to prevent it, even if it means buying Spencer lunch and, and whatever the other man may think of putting him through. He’s sure he’d do just about anything.

“Spencer, please come with me. I _need_ to talk to you. Privately.”

There. Adult, straight to the point, clinging to the bit of control he still has. With a frown, the psychic relents, though he walks a couple of steps behind Carlton and outright refuses to let himself be touched.

Great. Just great.

They end up going to a little café and standing at the door for about three minutes before giving up all pretense. Carlton slouches on a bench: there’s not a lot of people on the street, and in any case he doesn’t intend to let the conversation get loud enough for anyone to pay attention to them.

“So, what do you want?”

Spencer’s tone is weirdly aggressive; the man is distinctively uncomfortable with him. Out of instinct, Carlton separates himself a few inches from the psychic; it doesn’t have the intended effect, though. Instead of relaxing, Shawn’s frown deepens, and he glares at him in a way that makes the detective regret every decision he’s made up until this point in his life.

“Spencer, I-”

He doesn’t _know_ if he knows. Not for sure, though the way the other man studiously avoids his eyes and jerks away when he so much as makes a movement should be quite indicative. Something in Carlton’s stomach boils, rage and sadness mixing up and making him want to throw up. He hadn’t truly expected Spencer, out of all people, to react like _this_. Not that he’d ever thought about coming out at work - not that he’d ever thought he’d get the chance -, but part of him had always expected the fake psychic to be on his side if he did. 

Clenching his fists, he lowers his gaze before speaking.

“Spencer, I don’t know what you saw, or what you think you saw, the other day,” he manages. He’s rehearsed this. You can do it, Carlton: now comes the hardest part. “But I’d- I need to ask you- Please, could you and Guster not tell anyone at the station? Just-”

He shuts his mouth after that. Not much more to say, really; it’s tough to ask Shawn for a favor yet again. Much more after seeing the man’s revulsion: he feels the need to run away without waiting for an answer, but he stays firmly put.

“What?”

Carlton looks up. Spencer seems genuinely confused, so he tries again.

“If you- If you could _not_ tell, that’d be- I’d be grateful.” I’d do anything, he thinks. 

He’s not sure what would happen, were they to find out at the station. Oh, he wouldn’t be fired - probably not even demoted, just encouraged to transfer. He isn’t well-liked enough to actually expect full support and a welcoming hug; Carlton’s good at denying the obvious, but he’s not _stupid_. Any chance most of his colleagues could get to make him feel uncomfortable, he’s sure, they’re going to take. And his private life has already given him enough headaches to last for a lifetime.

Shawn’s lips tremble for a second. He gulps, shakes his head.

“Why would I do that?,” he asks. At first, Carlton feels relieved; then he actually understands what he’s saying. “What’s in it for me, Lassie?”

He gasps, breath suddenly stuck in his throat as he feels himself redden, both in anger and embarrassment.

“Shawn,” he forces himself to say, as cool and steady as possible. “It could cost me my career. Please.”

Spencer lets out a laugh.

“So, we’re on a first-name basis now, Lass? Why, I didn’t know our relationship could change this fast. Or, wait, I did: every time _you_ ask for something, I’m suddenly-”

That’s not fair. He knows that: Shawn does, too. He may not be nice, he may not breathe in the psychic’s every word like some of the others do, but he’s been- better, lately. 

“That’s-”

“Now, listen to me, Lassie. I’m, I’m tired, alright?” Spencer seems hurt, which is rich, coming from the guy who just treated him like he’s got some kind of infectious disease. “I’ve been _trying_ , I’ve been trying forever, and- Look, I won’t say anything, alright?,” he tells him, and something inside Carlton relaxes just a little. “Just as long as you stay- out of my way. Far, far away from me. Like, miles far. Kilometers, even.”

Carlton gapes. He knows he should be grateful: he’s pretty sure Shawn’s going to keep his word. But to hear _that_ , right after, well, everything; to hear Spencer’s pure _hate_ , it does something to him. Something bad. He sees red.

“Fuck you, Spencer.”

He doesn’t even yell. He’s probably never been colder in his life, not even when facing a perp. The whole global warming hoax could be ended if they just let him stay like this for a while.

Shawn laughs. “Wouldn’t you like to.”

He doesn’t think: he acts on instinct, and only later realizes what he’s doing, what it could mean, what it _will_ mean. He punches Spencer, as hard as he can, right on the chest: he’d aim for the face, but it’s hard to hit somewhere specific when he’s even having trouble breathing on his own.

The psychic lets out a yelp, a groan, and doubles over, clutching his ribs. Carlton’s fist stings: he’s hit him hard. Blinking, he makes a quick, detached assessment of the situation. Spencer may be seriously hurt: he fleetingly thinks of the suspension he has coming, maybe charges for assault. Just _great_.

“Fuck you.”

Carlton knows he’s repeating himself, but he really has nothing else to say. Nothing Spencer would understand or even listen to, at least. So he turns his back on him and takes a first step back to the station. Better make whatever time he’s got left there count, he figures.

“You’re a fucking jerk, Carlton.”

He stops when he hears his name. Just stills, like a deer caught in the headlights of a hunter’s truck. He should go. He should leave Shawn Spencer behind and let him talk to the Chief, to Juliet, to whoever it is that wants to listen, about how the mean violent Carlton Lassiter is also a _poof_.

Gosh, he’s weak.

“I know.” He turns back to the psychic to speak; looks at him again and sees that he’s still wheezing a little. “So are you.”

“Great, now that’s been established, I’m going to retire: fuck you, too.”

“Reiterate. And that’s fine. Do whatever you want. You don’t need to look at me any more time than necessary. And if you get me transferred,” Here’s to being optimistic, “you won’t even have to _see_ me any more. Go your merry way pretending people like me don’t exist.”

“Oh, I know plenty of people like you, Carlton. You see, my dad’s a jerk, too.”

The detective frowns, momentarily thrown off. Shawn tries to stand, hand still massaging his chest. Instinctively, he offers his arm to help him steady; the psychic takes it.

“That’s- great, I guess. Kind of figures.”

There’s a short silence, both of them apparently measuring each other. Trying to find out where to go from here.

“I’m really not going to say anything, you know. If you don’t want to,” comes Shawn’s quiet admission. Carlton nods.

“Thank you.”

“But you’re- I also meant it. The ‘get away from me' part.”

Pursing his lips, Carlton jerks away. Spencer stumbles slightly before finally standing on his own.

“Shit. I never- I always thought you, _you_ of all people, would be-”

The psychic looks at him carefully, realization finally landing, making his eyes widen.

“No! No, it’s not- It’s just- I need-” Carlton never thought he’d be seeing the day when Shawn Spencer would be at a loss for words. He raises his hand, managing to remain mostly calm as he gets the other man to shut up.

“It’s fine. Whatever. Not like we were-” Friends, he wants to say. It _is_ sad, that he feels like he’s lying. That he knows that Shawn’s the closest thing he’s had to one in a long time, barring O’Hara. It is especially sad, he muses, that they can make their relationship work through murder accusations and serial killers, but not through Carlton’s sexuality. 

Just his luck.

“Yeah. I guess so.”

A new, uncomfortably intense silence. Spencer seems to be about to say something else; Carlton’s more than ready to go back to the station, maybe hole up somewhere and wait for this day, this whole life, to be over.

“Well, it was- a good chat. Goodbye, Spencer.”

It happens just then. The psychic takes a step forward, a stumbling, clumsy one; he grabs Carlton by his neck and plants a sloppy kiss on his mouth before just as quickly backing away, almost hiding behind the bench.

“What do- What do you think you’re doing?”

***

The look of horror on Lassie’s face tells him this has been a really, really bad idea. Though, honestly, that shouldn’t be all that surprising: it seems that everything he does lately is doomed to suck from the very beginning.

He’s not even sure why he’s done something so monumentally stupid. He hadn’t meant to: his plan was to come to the station, easily avoid Lassiter, and then gingerly go his merry way. Plan B, when Carlton’s managed to guilt-trip him into having lunch - not that there’s been any food -, was equally foolproof: he’d listen, nod, and never again look at the man, at least until whatever it is that has gotten into him passes.

But Shawn’s whole schtick is improvising, after all. He made up psychic powers when threatened with jail; set up a detective agency both to spit his dad and pay the bills; and he’s now gone and all but _confessed_ his- whatever to Lassie just so the man won’t leave thinking he’s some kind of asshole.

Not that he’s helped his cause. Far from that, actually.

Carlton Lassiter’s eyes are far more expressive than he probably thinks. They truly are a window to his soul, if he has one, and more than make up for the perpetual frown he likes to put on whenever Shawn’s around. They’re the reason he never believed him guilty of Chavez’s murder, for instance; they’re also, possibly, the reason why he’s where he is right now, his stomach twisted in knots and a very anxious, very fake smile plastered on his face.

“I- think that was obvious. You’re brighter than this, Lassie,” he adds in a mock-scolding tone. Again, wrong turn: the man’s pissed now, and though that’s a more familiar terrain than the pure _hurt_ he’s been wearing all through their meeting, it’s still a far cry from the happy, ravishing realization he was aiming for. 

“Spencer-” A growl; a deep, deep breath. It’s weird, seeing Lassiter try to be civil when he’s so obviously dying to tear his throat out. “Spencer, whatever sick train of thought you’re following, stop it. I’m not-”

Shawn raises his hands, defensive.

“Hey, Lass, don’t- This is a misunderstanding.”

“It’s pronounced mockery, Spencer. And you can go shove your issues up your-”

Don’t say it, he begs. He’s not sure he’ll be able to let that one go, not with how absolutely panicked he's feeling. And cracking a joke right now may not be the best idea.

“I didn’t want to- I’m not _laughing_ , Lassie!”

“Yeah, right.” The detective purses his lips in a snarl, though he finally seems to bit his tongue. “Look, just because I’m the first-”

“You’re not the first gay man I’ve ever met, _duh_.” That much should be obvious. Just the first gay man he’s been into, which is much worse.

“I’m not gay.” Lassiter’s breathing in and out, trying to control himself. Shawn wishes he had that kind of restraint. Right now, he only feels like either running away or kissing Carlton again, for far longer this time.

“Right.”

“I’m _pansexual_ , Spencer, and in any case- that’s none of your business.”

He really can’t help it. He knows he should. He does try and keep his mouth shut, but it feels like he’s going to burst and there are so many worse ways to explode, in any case. Constant quipping is a vice he can live with.

“Wow, Lassie. Did you realize good ol’ Hugh’s not a kitchen tool?”

That seems to do it. Again. At least there’s no punch this time: Lassiter contents himself with flipping him off and turning away. 

“You’ve got issues, Spencer. Sort yourself out!”

***

Friday comes almost too early. Not that Juliet’s not looking forward to the weekend - she could really use some rest -, but there are still so many things left to do that she fears she’s going to have to stay holed up at the station for twenty-four hours straight.

Honestly, everything would work out much better if she had some help. She’s tried to make it clear to Carlton that he’s _expected_ to pull his weight, even if the serial killer’s case is being worked on by Dobson and Ramirez too. She’s even said those exact same words to him, and he’s nodded, and then he’s promptly gone back to sulking. Which is precisely as cringe-worthy to see as it sounds like, and she’s had more than enough of it to last her a lifetime. For a grown man, and for one projecting such a hard-ass image, her partner sure does that a lot.

Yesterday was the worst day yet. Up until then, Carlton had been fidgety, oddly quiet and discreet. He’d been almost _hiding_ himself away from the rest of the station, as if he were scared of any one of them suddenly pointing at him and- and doing what, exactly, it’s still a mystery to Juliet. But then he’d grabbed Shawn’s arm, forced him out of the station a little less violently than she’s seen him do it on other occasions, and afterwards had come in looking - different.

She’s smart enough not to ask. The relationship between those two is complicated: she’s never sure if they hate each other’s guts or if there’s a budding friendship growing there. Apart from her, honestly, Carlton will probably have a hard time finding someone so strangely devoted to him as Shawn, even if the main expression of that devotion is a constant need to annoy the detective.

In any case, and no matter whatever transpired on Thursday morning, she’s given her partner more than enough time to deal with it and start actually _working_. So her irritation grows exponentially every time Carlton looks at his watch instead of filling out paperwork or asking Dobson for news on the serial killer case, and by the time they get called out on a robbery and he sprints down to the car she’s ready to kill.

‘Are you planning on being like this much longer?’, is what she’s about to say. As usual, Carlton talks faster, louder, and runs all over her.

“O’Hara. I was thinking, maybe we could have a- _Talk_?” She swears she can hear both italics and that capital ‘T’ when he speaks. It is a sentence she never thought he was even capable of uttering, which sort of makes all her anger and very well-prepared speech go down the drain. She nods.

“Right. What do you-?”

He clears his throat, looks at the car’s clock. As he speeds up trying to reach the jeweler’s in record time, he shrugs.

“We could, maybe, go have lunch? It’s- I’d rather we talked somewhere more- private.”

The case ends up being routine, a well known petty thief having gone in using his very own ‘discount’ to try and get something nice for his current girlfriend. The girl actually walks in while they’re still taking notes, blushing bright red and muttering something about her not wanting any trouble for any of them. They take the guy’s name and send a couple of uniforms down to get him and bring him to the station, and they leave the girlfriend alone while she apologizes profusely to the store owners.

So far, so good. There will be reports to fill when they get back, but Juliet’s stomach grumbles and she wastes no time reminding her partner of his earlier proposition. He stops them on their way back, getting a table at one of their favourite spots, and plops down without so much as a word.

They make it through most of their lunch without either of them speaking. Juliet’s not hungry anymore, but she keeps eating as a way of giving him time to mull over whatever it is he wants to tell her. If Carlton doesn’t speak soon enough, she thinks she may have to hit him.

“So, it’s- Ehrm, I’ve- I’ve sort of been seeing someone?,” he says at last, only one bit of hamburger left, and she has to focus very hard not to _squee_ at that. 

“You have?”

“For, for about a week? And then some.”

It sort of surprises her. Not that Carlton’s not dated since she’s known him; but this time it doesn’t sound like there was a first date and then a series of increasingly uncomfortable calls. Good for him.

“Sounds- great, actually. So, is she-? Do I know her?”

He actually blushes. It’s a good look for him: makes him seem younger and less bitter and gives her the upper hand, which is a plus. 

“It’s- eh, it’s actually-,” he stutters. She frowns a little bit, and he seems to make up his mind at that moment. “No, you don’t.”

Juliet O’Hara is a good detective. She has been working with the police for long enough to learn a trick or two. If this were an interrogation, she’d press on: it is obvious that Carlton _wants_ to say something else. Maybe she does know her: mentally, she goes over every woman at the station. It makes sense that she’d be police, too - probably the only way she’d ever get to put up with his whole work addiction.

When it becomes apparent that her partner’s not going to tell her more, she puts on a smile and makes a conscious effort to give him some reassurance.

“Then I’d love to meet her. I mean, she’s got to be great, to be with you.”

She actually means it. For all his gruff exterior, his grumpiness and the often inappropriate comments he makes, Carlton’s one of the best people she knows. As long, that is, as one doesn’t expect him to pay for something, or to be civil to people. 

“That’d be- Thanks, O’Hara.”

Seeing an actual smile on his lips ends up almost making up for the rest of the morning.


	5. Those three words

Shawn hits the bar sooner than he probably should. It’s lunchtime, and he’s technically still working on the serial killer case, though, so he doesn’t feel too bad about having a couple of drinks at one of Jim Alcon’s usual hanging places. 

It’s a win-win, really: he gets to ask around, figuring out things he wouldn’t if people there didn’t think of him as one of their own, harmless and as drunk as the rest of them, and he can also forget about his whole _thing_ with Lassie only twenty-four hours prior.

Okay, so there aren’t actually any more people drinking at this time of the day, but they’re bound to get here soon, and in any case the waiter does recognize his friend Jimmy, talks about him as if they knew each other pretty well.

“So, you heard about his- boyfriend, I guess?” The waiter, Michael, actually laughs.

“Boyfriend? Jimmy doesn’t do _boyfriends_ ,” he points out. Shawn is about to correct him - Mickey may be very wrong about his good ol’ friend, but it’s never too late to discover new things about people’s intimate lives - when he speaks again. “He may have a fuckboy or two. But, you know, nothing serious. He says he’s already been married once: won’t make the same mistake.”

That has Shawn frowning, trying to connect some dots in his head. It would be much easier if he hadn’t had like four drinks already, of course.

“Fuck _boys_? As in, more than one?” He can’t imagine keeping up that kind of thing for long. It must have been exhausting, having to figure out how he felt about multiple people at once. He tells Michael exactly that, and the waiter pours him a fifth screwdriver while he shakes his head.

“Not that kind of guy, you know. Jimmy’s usually a charmer, but he doesn’t ever get in too deep; mostly makes things clear from the very beginning.” He smiles; it takes Shawn a moment to notice he’s still talking about the man in the present tense. He should probably break the news to him, but he likes Mike, doesn’t want to spoil his day this early. “Not that some guys haven’t gone cuckoo, head over heels about him. You know, there was this dude - Horatio, I think. He was a real pain, went all stalkery on him. I really think he should’ve gotten help or something. Jimmy, I mean. Gone to the police.” He smiles again, points to the sixth screwdriver, and winks. “This one’s on the house. Shawn, wasn’t it?”

The world is spinning by the time he makes it out of the bar. Lunchtime has been over for a few hours: when Shawn finally gets to guess what his watch is trying to tell him, he finds out it’s almost eight. Good time to go home and crash, he thinks. He doesn’t know if he’s figured something out, but he’s at least walked out of there with Mike’s number - in case he wants to know something else about Jimmy, he figures - and a better grasp, he swears, on his whole life-shattering discoveries from earlier this week.

Or, well, maybe it’s not so much that, as the fact that he’s had enough to drink to be able to admit - if only to himself - what he’s sort of suspected for a far longer time than he’d like to think.

He likes Lassie. As in, like, _really likes him_ . He wants to get close to the man, wants to touch him in ways that are probably NC-17 rated; worse still, he thinks he’d really be open to the concept of, maybe, _cuddling_ with the grumpy detective. Which he’s sure would be weirder than anything he’s ever done in his life, and that obviously includes setting up a fake psychic detective agency and that one thing Gus and he _never_ talk about.

Feeling suddenly much more at peace with himself, he tries saying out loud the words that have been swimming around his mind for the last few days. They come out slurred and he’s sure he’s mangled a vowel or two, but they’re still understandable enough that he’s able to make them out himself.

“I’m in love with Lassie.”

Surprisingly enough, the world doesn’t end at that moment, nor does his brain implode or shatter. Instead, he blinks, repeats himself at least three times. There are not a lot of people around; the few he finds look at him with a mix of pity and worry.

“I’m _in love_ with Lassie.”

After the tenth time it starts to feel _real_ . So obvious a fact he doesn’t even know how he’s been able to live without acknowledging it for so long. Or how is it that nobody else seems to have noticed. Particularly Lassie. For heaven’s sake: he’s a detective. He’s supposed to _detect_ things. Like this. 

Thinking of how to quickly fix that tiny detail, Shawn fishes his phone out of his jeans’ pocket. Clumsily opening it, he starts to rehearse what he’s going to say in his head. It comes out a little jumbled, but he’s sure the older man will _know_ what he means. He has to. That’s how things work: true love conquers all, he decides. Even if it takes until the third act for it to do so. 

They’ve already had their lovers’ fight, in any case, he remembers. They’ve argued and Lassie left feeling probably betrayed and sad and stuff, like a sixteen-year-old whose birthday had been forgotten. They’ve also had their sad montage, with Shawn spending it in a bar having a life-changing conversation with Mike and Lassie doing whatever it is he’s been doing. Probably pining for him at the station. 

Or hanging out with that Hugh guy, his brain supplies with sudden panic. Luckily, Shawn’s an expert at ignoring what his common sense tells him. And so he calls.

Lassie’s going to love this. 

***

He leaves his jacket and holster at the entrance; Hugh puts down the small suitcase he brought with him, and it somehow seems like a grand gesture, something so definite and serious and committed that he has a _déja vu_ to the first months of his marriage. 

“So, what do you think?”

It feels - ordinary. There’s nothing about that place that gives away anything about its owner. The walls have been painted over and over again, dull colours that seem to mix in order to create the perfect picture of _nothingness_ , a lack of any discernible emotion. Even white would be better: at least it would look clean.

He doesn’t say it, though, because for about a second he thinks he can see something among the cheap IKEA furniture and the well-worn carpet. There, he realizes: they’re on the shelves, camouflaged next to predictable books, the ones that line up the stores at the airport. His gaze is almost immediately drawn to them: small figurines, hand-made, carved out of wood and painted in bright colours. There are farm animals and fantastic beasts, cows sharing their space with dragons, and each and every one of them is completely, fascinatingly unique. 

“Did you make those?”

Hugh positively beams at him. He closes the space between the two of them in one huge step, launching himself at Carlton, and kisses him so hard and for so long he feels himself stumble a little. 

“You are wonderful, did you know that?” Breathless and adoring, dark eyes fixing on his face as if there were nothing else worth noticing in the whole world. Something inside Carlton twists, a warm feeling spreading from his stomach to the rest of his body. And almost at the same time, a small, treacherous part of his brain lets out a hiss and insists on changing Hugh’s eye colour, from dark rich brown to greenish amber. He forces on a smile.

“Come here. I’ve got to show them all to you.”

Hugh has indeed made each and every one of the figurines. He loves wood carving: he’s been doing it since he was little. 

“My grandma taught me how,” he explains. “She's an artist. A sculptor. Though, obviously, it's a hobby more than anything. But it’s nice to be able to make them. You know, it teaches you the power of hard work and perseverance: after enough time spent with a knife, you can shape whatever you want, make it perfect.”

The house is not big, which in Carlton’s opinion becomes an advantage. Hugh’s perspective on interior design is deficient even by his very lax standards: he can only imagine - not that he wants to - the fit Guster would have, were he to ever lay feet in this place.

Still, the tour takes them longer than it should. Something to do with them stopping at each and every corner to make out like horny teenagers, hands snaking down his pants though he swears he’s doing his best to behave and wait until they’re done to start with that part. Hugh laughs when he points out the absolute lack of taste when choosing the different pieces of furniture: that’s the problem of moving around so much, he says. The only things they always carry with them are the figurines, grandma's pillow - hard to find one that’s at least adequate when one’s renting -, and his tools.

“Tools?” Carlton almost regrets asking when it means going back up the narrow stairs to the main bedroom. Once there, though, he finds himself gently pushed down on the bed while Hugh gets out a shoebox from under it.

“See?,” the other man asks with a smirk. The tools he mentioned are a mishmash of things, from plush-looking handcuffs to an old riding crop he eyes with some weariness. 

“Do you usually, you know?” He points at the crop, at a nasty-looking iron bar he doesn’t want to know the uses for. Hugh shakes his head.

“Most of them are just, you know, like a collection. But we can try and find some _creative_ uses for some of them, if you want.”

Carlton’s very sure they can do that. They’ve got the whole weekend ahead to experiment.

The call comes in the middle of them undressing. Hugh’s hand is reaching into his pants, pulling both them and his underwear down, when an annoying song he doesn’t quite recognize starts ringing from the bedside table. Of course, he tells himself: it _had_ to be Spencer.

He picks it up, even though Hugh looks at him with pleading eyes and mouths for him not to. 

“You’re off work,” he reminds him; Carlton shrugs and gets the phone anyway.

“Fire away, Spencer. This better be good.”

He should know better than to give the fake psychic any leeway. There’s a string of nonsense coming from the other end, something he can’t quite put together but that, judging by Spencer’s tone, seems to be continuing some sort of conversation they had earlier.

“You’re right, Lassie. I’m trying, okay, I’m really trying here. This is - this goes against _all of my instincts_ . I should be running away by now, okay? You, I know this is _not_ how you’re supposed to do-”

“Can you-? Calm down, Spencer. And, is this really necessary? It’s like-”

He breathes in deeply, counts to ten while the other man rambles before reaching a startling confusion.

“Are you-? Are you drunk? Shawn, have you been drinking?”

Silence on the other end. Then, a small, shy voice, so different from Spencer’s usual tone.

“Bye, Lassie.”

It takes him a moment to find out he’s been hung up onto. When he does, he furiously closes his cellphone, almost throwing it away in frustration, before letting out a couple of curses.

“Carlton?”

He catches himself before snapping, bites back the mean comment he was about to make. Hugh is not to blame for this, for Spencer being a drunk jerk and Carlton himself having - issues. Hugh is not to blame for anything, really, but being there for him, trying to _love_ him, coming - so close, actually, that he feels a need to step back.

“It’s fine,” he lies. “Sorry. Just the station.”

The other man frowns.

“The station.” Voice flat, disappointed. Carlton’s stomach flips and he almost answers, almost tells him _it was that ass Spencer, the one you met when he fucked up our date like he’s been doing my whole life for years_. But there’s no need for that. Today’s the start of his weekend off, both from the station and the chaos the psychic brings with him. 

“So, where were we?,” he asks, trying to get back in the mood. Hugh doesn’t react, though: he keeps looking at him, and for the first time Carlton realizes he’s actually taller, stockier than he is. He shakes his head, tries to close the gap between the both of them: a hand on his chest keeps him where he is.

“The station,” he repeats. Carlton forces himself not to explode, say something he will regret in a few minutes. He breathes in and out, grabs Hugh’s hand and plasters a smile on his face.

“They can’t live without-”

The slap comes suddenly, with no warning. It leaves his ears ringing for minutes afterwards, splits his lip and actually makes him tumble back.

“What the-?”

Instinctively, he looks at the door, right past Hugh, whose eyes have widened to an almost impossible size and who looks less like an adorable sex maniac and more like the poster child for strangers in dark alleys. 

“It was that guy, wasn’t it? Spencer. Shawn Spencer, Head Psychic with the SBPD,” he almost sing-songs, in such a close rendition of Spencer’s own introduction that it sends chills down Carlton’s spine. “C’mon, Carlton: admit it.”

He’s walking forwards, fury and determination in his expression, a hand raised as if to hit him again. Carlton backs away slowly right until he finds a wall behind him; his eyes keep searching his surroundings, looking for a weapon. They find the bed, the shoebox full of tools: something from there, he thinks, may help him out. 

“That’s - It’s not as if he’s -” he tries to explain. Hugh’s lips purse, an incredibly disappointed look in his eyes. 

“I thought you were _The One_ , Carlton. I really did.” He’s sure he can hear the capital letters, the slow enunciation making it all just the more surreal. “I thought we had _something_ here. Turns out I was wrong. I’m always wrong, Carlton. But here’s to hoping.”

He wants to tell him to stop, bark an order at him and get out his weapon. But he’s left his holster downstairs - safety first; why did he have to start trusting almost complete strangers _now?_ \- and he’s not sure how much good it would do, screaming at Hugh. So he goes the other way, keeping his voice as soft as he can and his body and gaze steady.

“But we do. We have it, Hugh. Honey.” It sounds weirdly like an insult when he forces it out; the other man doesn’t seem to notice, though. He stops dead on his tracks, a hopeful twitch of his lip the only sign that he’s heard him. “I mean, if you’re - if you’re _worried_ about Spencer- I’m only working with him. He was saying something about the case; it doesn’t mean that you, that us-”

Hugh doesn’t let him finish. With a final stride, he closes the distance between them, hands on either side of Carlton’s head as he plants a long, passionate kiss on his now bloodied lips. He can feel his heart rate calming down, his breath slowing just a little. Situation defused, he thinks: he can thank the police training he’s had for that.

Or not. Hugh’s hands let go of his head to slide over to his neck, seizing it and _pressing_. Short of breath, he tries to fight them off, nails digging in Hugh’s wrists and forearms to no avail. There’s a leg between his, pressure on his groin that disappears for a second only to come back transformed into a kick. He groans, as well as he can, while Hugh’s face gets away from his own.

“We’ll talk about this later, Carlton,” he tells him, and suddenly the pressure on his neck is gone, and he’s left gasping and clutching his sore groin.

“I-” He wants to speak, but finds it difficult, throat still closed from having his windpipe squeezed. Not that Hugh is listening anyway.

“Hands behind your back, Carlton. Don’t make this harder for both of us.” When he doesn’t immediately comply, the other man yanks his right wrist, his left, and slides on the plush-looking cuffs he saw earlier. Still doubled over and starting to panic, Carlton tries to find the safety release, but there is none. Hugh’s hand ruffles his hair before clutching his jaw and forcing him upwards.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he manages. The other man just stares for a while before going back to the bed, fumbling around with the box’s contents. 

It is now or never. The door is open, and though it’d be easier to run without having his hands tied back, Carlton _knows_ he can do it. He just needs to be fast, to-

“Don’t even try it, honey. I told you: we need to talk.”


	6. Painful conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, things get darker in this chapter. Warnings are probably in order: I think I sort of tagged them already, but just in case, expect drunkenness, non-con, violence, and a lot of Lassie!whump. Consider yourselves duly warned.

Shawn is a mess. This was not what she had been expecting when Gus called: Juliet’s pretty sure she’s never seen her friend like this. Not even after the Yang case, when he had to rescue _his mother_ from the serial killer’s clutches. 

“Do you know-?” Gus shakes his head, resigned.

“Don’t ask. It’s better you don’t know. I just needed some help here, someone to do damage control.”

Shrugging, she gets to work quickly enough. All her reservations have gone out the window the moment she’s set foot in Shawn’s apartment: after what has been an intensely frustrating week, the one thing she truly wanted to do was curl up on her couch and watch a couple of DiMaggio’s games she’s seen a hundred times. But the situation, as Gus has put it, is an _emergency_. They need to put their heads together so that things can get back to semi-normal soon.

Shawn’s drunk. He doesn’t usually drink: he’s told her more than once that it interferes with the spirits’ mojo. He may have a beer, a couple of cocktails if he’s feeling fancy: right now, though, he’s almost blackout drunk. It isn’t pretty, and she’s sure she doesn’t want to ever see it again.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mumbles. At least, that’s what she thinks he’s saying. Not really sure who he’s referring to: it could be her, or Gus, or his Thundercats t-shirt. “You’re so beautiful, and funny, and beautiful. Jules, c’mere.”

He’s making kissy gestures at her, pursing his lips and smacking them in her general direction. Were it someone else, she’d have slapped them already. As it is, she bears it as well as she can, shooting confused glances at Gus and hoping that the combination of food, water and stillness will make Shawn calm down.

The psychic’s already been puking his guts out: apparently, by the time she made it there he’s been through about twenty different drunken moods. He’s cried, laughed, tried to punch his best friend, and now he’s flirting with her in a way that makes Juliet feel violent and oddly aroused. After all, it’s not as if she _doesn’t_ like him. It’s just not worth it, falling into Shawn’s clutches. She’s seen where that leads: she’s bumped into poor Abigail Lytar at least twice in the last month. Not a pretty aftermath.

After the fifth time he tries to touch her boobs without being able to _understand_ depth, she decides she’s had enough.

“Okay. Okay, Shawn, stop it.”

“Don’t wanna.” 

She crosses her arms, directs her best Lassiterian glare at him. It seems to sober him up for about half a second; then he breaks into laughter. It soon, for whatever reason, devolves into tears.

“Jules, I love you, you know that?” Her heart skips a beat at that: for a second she feels a knot in her throat, a weird flutter in her stomach, and then Shawn has to go and spoil it all. “I love you too, Gus. I love you so much, man. I can’t live without you. I _literary_ can’t.”

“Literally, Shawn,” his friend corrects, assessing the situation from his spot in the corner of the living room. 

“I’ve heard it both ways. You’re probably right, though. You’re so _smart_ , Gus. You’re very very very smart.” He scrunches up his face, sits up a little before plopping down again with a groan. Through one half-open eye, he observes Juliet. “You too, Jules. Ju-li-e-tte. Juliet. Julie. You’re smart too. You’re two, both, smart.”

She’s about to interrupt him; a gesture from Gus stops her dead in her tracks.

“So, tell me, very very truly smart persons. People.” Shawn swallows, closes his eyes and balls his hands into fists around the couch’s cushions. “Why doesn’t he like _me_ ? Huh? What am I doing _wrong?_ , I’ve even _told_ him-”

“He can’t take you seriously, for one.”

Juliet is absolutely lost. Looking up at Gus once more, she awaits for an explanation that doesn’t come. 

“He _so_ can, Gussy-Gus! He can _so_ take me ser- sir - seriously, I’m always serious!”

“You’re never serious, Shawn. And when you are it _doesn’t feel_ like you are. I get it, it’s your thing, but he’s-”

Shawn pouts, overly dramatic for a second. Under that expression, though, there’s hurt, and confusion, and he looks so weak and needy that Juliet can’t help but sit down next to him, take his hand and squeeze it.

“Shawn, what’s going on?,” she asks softly. His gaze meets hers, and though it’s blurry and more than a little wet, it’s one of the most sincere she’s seen on him.

“I-” He shakes his head, looks past her to Gus, as if asking for support. His long-suffering best friend nods, gestures in their general direction. 

“Tell her, Shawn. It’ll be fine.”

And so Shawn licks his lips, makes an effort to stand. Juliet helps him sit with his back on the couch’s arm, facing her. For about a second it looks like he’s about to be sick, but he holds himself together.

“I- I think I may be gay, Jules.”

On the other side of the room, Gus scoffs. That seems to anger Shawn; his face twists as he addresses his friend.

“I can’t see what’s so _funny_ about all this! It’s a life-chattering- !”

“You’re not gay, Shawn,” his friend firmly states. There’s no doubt in Gus’ voice: in any case, Juliet’s too deep in shock to be able to discern who’s right in this scenario.

“How do you know that? Do you have a kind of gay-sporting radar, huh?”

“ _Spotting_ , Shawn; and no, I don’t.”

Gus seems to be more concerned about semantics than about his best friend’s life crisis. Knowing Shawn, though, he’s probably chosen the smartest option. Still, Juliet can’t help but look between the two men, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, not daring to believe what she’s hearing but feeling the gears in her mind quickly trying to make sense of it all.

“Then, you don’t know. I _know_ I’m gay.”

“You’ve liked exactly _one man_ in your whole life, Shawn. Two, if we’re counting Val.”

“We are.”

“Two men. Plenty of women, right?” The psychic nods, and so Gus continues. “Then you’re not gay. Bi, maybe. Or pan.”

Shawn’s face twists in concentration. 

“Pan? Nuh-huh, I can’t cook for the life of me.” Something seems to suddenly land on him. “Wait! Isn’t that what Lassie’s- ?”

At that, Juliet coughs, air leaving her lungs with no warning at all. 

“What?”

In his defense, Shawn does look a bit guilty at that. May have something to do with the way her hand’s left his, as in a panic; still, he doesn’t answer, instead waiting for Gus to do it for him. 

As usual, the other man complies.

“Though it’s really _not our place to say_ ,” he says, pointedly looking at Shawn, who feebly runs a hand through his hair, “Lassiter does, well, he apparently likes, you know.”

Juliet’s grey matter is working overtime, her brain cells pushing all the buttons at once. Her gaze goes from Gus’ shrug to Shawn’s blush, and she starts to connect the dots.

“So… So, Carlton may like- men. At times.” She speaks slowly, finds out it’s easier to process all the information that way.

“He still likes women. Just like Shawn.”

 _Pansexual_ , she finds herself thinking. There’s probably a bit more to it than what Gus is saying; she’s never bothered to find out much about any of that, but she’s pretty sure there has to be a difference between the whole _bi_ and _pan_ thing. She could swear there are even different flags for each. She should probably ask Carlton. Flags are nice.

“Good. That’s good,” she says, because - she suddenly realizes - it means that Shawn _did_ like her, may even still do. Juliet doesn’t think her ego can take the rejection right now if it comes along with a ‘it’s really not you: it’s your vagina’.

Shawn’s looking up at her with something both hopeful and terrified in his eyes. The detective clears her throat.

“So, what’s the problem, then?”

Instead of relaxing, as she thought he would, the psychic becomes even more tense. He looks just about to flee, run away from them and hop on his bike and never, ever come back to Santa Barbara. He also looks like he’d probably fall down on his face if he so much as tried to put one foot in front of the other.

“That’s- I-” He swallows, tries again. “I’ve _tried everything_ , Jules.”

“Liar.”

“He just doesn’t, he doesn’t even want to _see_ me. He’s yelled at me, and- and- He _hates_ me!”

A sideways glance at Gus confirms what she already suspected and sort of dreaded.

“Lassiter,” the other man mouths. Juliet sighs. It’s going to be a long evening.

***

He should've run.

Apparently, when Hugh said “we need to talk” he only meant himself; Carlton’s been listening to him ramble for what feels like forever. It’s even worse than listening to his mother _and_ Althea go on every single time he visits. He’d tell him to shut up if he could; but, having been gagged - with his own spare underwear, to make matters worse -, the best he can do is glare at the man. Hugh, however, like basically every other partner he’s ever had, seems to be immune.

Carlton’s losing his patience. Not that he had much to begin with, but right now he’s sure he’d start shooting if he had his gun handy. He’s looked everywhere, tried to find _any_ means of escaping to no avail. He’s tied, hands uncomfortably cuffed behind his back and legs spread, bound to the bedposts. He’s still kind of sitting up, trying to maintain at least a semblance of control and dignity while Hugh babbles, only stopping to sniff, sob, and pet him on the head.

He can’t even count the number of bullets he’d be putting into him if he had the chance.

“I really thought you were special, Carlton,” he’s telling him for what seems to be the hundredth time. Running a hand through his hair, Hugh lets out a sigh. “But you’re just like the others. You’re- You’re going to leave me. You all do, you know? Just like Arthur, or Jim, or Tom did. In the end, the only person a man can trust is his grandma.”

He’s not exactly in a position to leave, truth be told, but he can’t argue with the other man’s logic. It is obvious that trusting people is a mistake; trusting them _and_ leaving your gun downstairs is even worse. 

The good thing, if he’s got to find a silver lining in all of this, is that he’s pretty sure he just found himself a serial killer. 

Carlton doesn’t have a lot of practice in the whole optimism department. 

***

It takes them a while to stop Shawn’s constant rambling. Juliet feels a little bit guilty for trying harder to shut him up than to actually make him feel better; but, as Gus says, when dealing with the psychic one needs to be practical. He’s not going to come to his senses any time soon, and the only thing that’s made him calm down somewhat has been the threat of calling Henry. 

Once they’ve put him to bed, the world apparently still spinning, they plop down on the formerly Shawn-filled couch. Gus seems to be expecting her to say something, and as Juliet tries to find the right words she feels him eye her warily.

“So,” she says, at last. “How long?”

The man shrugs.

“If you ask me, ever since they met. Though it’s probably gotten worse with time. Like, remember Chavez?” She nods. Gus makes some sort of gesture with his hand that Juliet doesn’t know how to interpret. “I was sure it was that. I mean, even _you_ had your doubts.”

The detective blushes.

“I- I knew it hadn’t been him. I just-”

“Needed proof, like any normal person.” He looks her right in the eye, and a slow smile spreads on his lips. “But Shawn didn’t. Sure, he said something or other about, I don’t know. Spirits, I guess.” There’s been a pause in there, so short and expertly covered by the man’s speech she almost doesn’t catch it. Juliet files it for later: maybe once she gets out of here and is able to think about something that’s not _this_ she’ll find some use for it.

“But he still trusted Carlton. Way more than he should have, I guess. I mean, not that he doesn’t deserve it,” she adds quickly. Gus nods.

“That’s more or less when _I_ knew.” The man lets out a tired sigh, but his smile grows more malicious. “I guess it took him longer to ‘divine’ it. Hah.”

Makes sense. Really, it does. Shawn’s a great guy, but not exactly very open on the whole feeling front. It kind of figures he wouldn’t be exactly forthcoming when it comes to something like… this.

A comfortable silence falls between them. 

“So, Carlton.” Gus cringes a little when he hears the name. 

“I don’t get it, either. But, Shawn does Shawn, you know.”

Juliet bites her lip, fiddles with the hem of her t-shirt before speaking up again.

“Do you think he’ll be fine? I mean, he’s taken it pretty badly, right?”

A nod.

“He’ll think it over. Come to terms with it. It’s pretty big, but still. And, hey, he has us.”

***

“Are you thirsty?” 

Hugh’s been out for maybe half an hour; he comes back carrying a glass of water and a bottle of scotch. Lying on the bed, Carlton grunts: the other man seems to take it as assent, because he sits next to him, forces him to raise his head and clumsily, one handed, takes off the duck tape from his mouth. 

The cloth comes off next. Damp and crumpled, it slides off easily, and Carlton finds himself gasping for an air he didn’t know he needed. Hugh pushes the glass against his lips, and he drinks without complaining. When the empty glass is replaced by the scotch bottle, though, he tries to jerk away.

“C’mon. I bought it for you.”

The younger man’s hand is firmly clutching his hair, keeping him sitting. He moves around, sliding under Carlton’s half-raised body so that the detective’s head rests on his chest. It’s uncomfortable, but Hugh doesn’t seem to care. He lets go once he’s settled, the tight fist becoming a caress as he pets him, thumb tracing his jawline before pushing the bottle to him once more.

This time, Carlton relents.

It’s good scotch, he thinks. He would’ve enjoyed it, were it not for the fact that he’s still tied up and held by a psycho. It all feels like a terribly well-timed joke on the Universe’s part: a bit sooner, and he wouldn’t have given Hugh the chance to get close to him; a bit later, and maybe-

Maybe, he thinks, and tries to push back the images of Spencer, the mocking kiss they shared for barely a second. He’s going to die, though, so he thinks he may be allowed some measure of daydreaming.

He chugs down the scotch until he feels his throat burn, his nose fill with liquid; he chokes on it, then, and Hugh gets the bottle away from him as he coughs. 

“There, there. Feeling better?” He’s pushed his body a bit more, made him sit. Carlton lets himself be manhandled, feeling little to no inclination to fight. He’s been there for hours, most of the time spent listening to his _boyfriend_ pour his heart out, as if he weren’t holding him there against his will. It must be sometime around midnight: surely by now the younger man should be tired of Carlton, more than willing to put an end to all of this. A cold chill goes through him; he remembers the reports on the other men’s deaths. If Hugh follows the same pattern, he still has a long way to go.

“Are you going to kill me?,” he asks, voice low and as non-threatening as he can make it. Over his, Hugh’s head moves, his face wrinkling, frowning. He slides an arm around Carlton’s chest, touches his lips with his other hand.

“I’d never hurt you, you know,” Hugh tells him. A groan escapes the detective’s mouth. Apparently, their definitions of ‘hurting’ are wildly different, he thinks as he nibbles his split lip to prevent himself from screaming at him. Hugh doesn’t like that: he’s been quite vocal about it. No shouting, no loud noises. His grandma should get home soon, he’s said, and she needs to sleep.

And that, there, lies Carlton’s only hope. If the woman hears him - if she’s not as batshit crazy as her grandson, at least -, she may be able to help defuse the situation. But he tried screaming at first, before Hugh gagged him, and nobody showed up. And making any kind of noise when bound to the very plush bed is getting harder by the second.

He feels Hugh shift behind him, get out of where he is and carefully let him fall back on top of his tied up, numb arms. He lets out a growl; a thumb goes over his mouth, a look of mock-disapproval in Hugh’s eyes. And then it hits him. He’s tried screaming, he’s tried behaving. He _has to_ try this, too. It may just do the trick.

“Kiss me?,” he softly murmurs, barely loud enough so that he will be heard. Almost instantly, Hugh stops getting his briefs-slash-gag from the other side of the bed, and a big fat smile lights up his face.

“Really?”

Carlton forces himself to nod and sets his expression as much as he can. He’s not a great actor, but his audience is dying to get fooled; still, he has to thank the bed for not letting him jerk away too violently when Hugh leans over, kneeling on the mattress in between his legs and cupping his face with his hands. He lets himself be kissed, the taste of food he hasn’t had the chance to try filling his mouth; he even forces himself to moan into it, though he just wants to throw up, and kiss back.

When they separate, Hugh’s eyes are teary. He seems incredibly happy, though, so he guesses it hasn’t been such a stupid strategy; that is, until the man gets down on all fours, arms firmly planted on either side of Carlton’s body as his mouth trails over his still-clothed chest and belly and stops to breathe at the very hem of his pants. He can’t help the small, involuntary yelp that comes out of his mouth then; Hugh doesn’t seem to notice.

“I love you, did I tell you that? I love you, Carlton. And I think - I think I can forgive you. Just give me- some time. Let me-” 

He says nothing more, and Carlton himself bites his lip not to open his mouth. Hugh’s breath is getting further away from his groin, which he’s really thankful for. If he gets out of here, if he _doesn’t_ \- Well, he thinks it may be about time to start going to mass again. Make some donations, even. 

The scotch is starting to seep into his bloodstream, unimpeded as it is by food of any kind. He’s feeling light-headed, a bit dizzy; it takes him a moment to realize that Hugh has actually untied one of his legs, and he tries to move it, kick at him without any strength. His skin tickles and it is hard to get it to respond; still, he does his best. Hugh laughs good-naturedly.

“Don’t be impatient, honey. We’re getting there, don’t worry. Just, I’m going to get some things.” A picture of the ‘tools’ he got to see earlier flashes through his mind; when Hugh leaves, however, it is only to fiddle in one of the wardrobe’s drawers, and he brings back a bottle of lube with him. Panicking, Carlton feels his breath hitching and does his best to get away from him; a hard task, considering his left leg is still bound to the bedpost.

“Please- Please, Hugh, just-” The younger man’s fingers press over his lips: he has a frown on, and is looking at him as if he were an annoying neighbourhood’s kid. Almost sobbing, Calrton shuts up; Hugh’s frown disappears.

“Good. We’re still going to enjoy the weekend, alright? So, relax. We’ve done this before; we can try other stuff later, if you want.”

He unbuttons Carlton’s pants with expert hands, tugs down until they bunch around his ankles. He’s not wearing shoes: Hugh took them off earlier, muttering something about getting dirt on the bed. 

“Ready?” 

Carlton’s so not ready for this. For any of it, for that matter; still, Hugh’s hands push him to the side until he rolls, lying on his belly and unsuccessfully trying to calm down, to even his breath. 

The younger man lies on top of him, nibbling at his neck and sliding cold hands under his shirt. He tickles, playful, and tugs a bit on his nipples, and it’s all so freakishly similar to what they’ve done a good number of times before that he wants to cry. He tries to speak once again; Hugh’s fingers dip into his half-open mouth, and though he feels the need to bite down, hard, onto them, he only dares let out a whimper.

“C’mon, lick them. You like it, don’t you, honey?”

He does as he’s told, body trembling with both fear and rage; when Hugh takes his hand away from his face, he buries it on the pillow, just like he’s done these past days, and lets him work.

Wet fingers tease at the entrance of his butthole, Hugh’s other hand separating his cheeks while he tenses and braces himself for what he knows is to come. The younger man’s gentle, takes his time to try and prepare him, mumbling sweet nothings all the while, making it all seem so perfectly _normal_ that Carlton’s brain almost shuts off, the scotch and the sheer desperation he’s feeling finally catching up. He bites his lips when the other man decides he’s ready, when he feels the tip of a cock that’s been inside him so many times already try to push forward. Tears form in his eyes: he snaps them shut, irrationally hoping that, if he doesn’t see it _actually_ happening, then he can just pretend it isn’t, transport himself away from all of it.

It doesn’t work. He feels the burn and the stretch, the careful way Hugh positions himself as to not hurt him, biting his shoulder before starting to move. It could be, he thinks wildly, it could be like any other time. He can do that, maybe; he can just think it hard enough that it’ll become the truth, that he’ll wake up and find himself on his own bed, both of them asleep and satisfied and-

Hugh’s hand closes over his cock, stroking it slowly, firmly, and he actually _weeps_. His shoulders shake, sobs catching up in his throat while the other man sets up a rhythm, does his best to force Carlton’s body to respond. He’s going to get angry, comes to the older man’s mind, and he instinctively tries to make himself smaller, invisible. 

They’re done quickly, Hugh resting on top of him for a while before moving. Carlton was right: he is pissed, but he doesn’t take it out on him, instead letting out a couple of muttered curses before standing up and stroking Carlton’s hair.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbles sheepishly. The detective doesn’t answer, so the younger man grabs a handful of hair, forces his head to rise until his back is arched. Face to face, Hugh frowns. “Are you crying? Was I _that_ bad?”

He’s only half joking, so Carlton spits out a hardly convincing ‘no’ that earns him a smile and a soft peck. 

“Good to know, honey. Love you, too.” Still not letting go of him, Hugh climbs into the bed, snakes his way in, and finally lets Carlton’s head drop onto his naked lap. It smells of sweat and sex, and he gags and almost retches, held in place by the younger man’s hands on his shoulders. 

“Time to relax, alright? I’m tired, Carlton.”

The idea occurs to him about five minutes later. He tries to move, wiggle slightly so he can look Hugh in the eye before speaking, but he’s held tightly and doesn’t want to try his luck at sudden movements.

“Honey,” he manages to croak, trying very hard not to lose his voice or start sobbing again. “Honey, are you awake? Hugh?”

He gets his answer almost immediately, a kiss awkwardly planted on the back of his head. Breathing as evenly as he can, Carlton tries to speak again. This, he figures, can still go terribly wrong.

“I- need to pee,” he mumbles. When there’s no response, he tries again. “I really need to use the restroom. Please.”

A sigh, and Hugh’s hands get under his torso, push him back so he can get out of the bed again.

“Alright,” he concedes, and suddenly Carlton’s plan is laid out to him in all its monumental stupidity. Hugh’s still taller, stockier, much stronger than he, even in the best of worlds. The best you can hope for is that he’ll let you go there alone, that he’ll untie you and tell you to walk downstairs and then-

But Hugh, of course, does nothing of the sort. He frees Carlton’s leg and puts his pants back on, but still leaves the cuffs around his wrists; then, he takes him by the arm, pulls him out of the bed and helps him stand while his whole body tries to adapt to this new development. The scotch has really done a number on him: the room is spinning, and his knees don’t work properly until they’ve almost reached the restroom.

Hugh’s other hand has automatically slided over his mouth, pressing down until all sound comes out muffled. He holds Carlton against his chest as they walk: the stairs creak, but they manage to get down to the main floor without anyone showing up.

Hugh lets go of Carlton’s arm to open the door to the bathroom. That right there should be the moment when he makes a break for it, thinks the detective; he should kick the younger man somehow, headbutt him and run like mad, screaming like a maniac. But he’s trapped, his body pressed past the door by Hugh’s, and he feels sticky and sore and dizzy, he feels weak and dirty, and so he lets the moment pass.

“So, number one you said?”

Dumbly, he nods, and Hugh positions both of them over the toilet, as one, a huge, only vaguely human lump; the younger man’s hand finds his cock, and that’s the moment Carlton’s body chooses to finally react. He throws up.

To Hugh’s credit, he waits until he’s finished to slap him. He even washes his hands first.


	7. The morning after

“Shit.”

He’s feeling every single one of the drinks from yesterday swirling about in his stomach, making their way up and trying to find freedom from his very sick, very sad body. This must be what it feels like to be old; he thinks he should probably cut Henry some more slack, if his days are as miserable as this.

“I told you, you should drink some more water.”

Gus’ advice is promptly ignored. Not that Shawn doesn’t want to listen, but the mere idea of putting something to his mouth that isn’t cyanide, of actually moving and not curling up to die, seems absolutely awful right now. He’s not ready. He’ll never be ready. He needs to pass away so that everyone can mourn him and get on with their lives.

Still on the bed, Shawn does his best not to let his friends guess this fact, though. It’s bad enough that he’s about to face an agonizing death: to have both Jules and Gus as witnesses makes it all even worse. If there is something worse than what he’s feeling, that is.

“I’m making some soup,” comes Jules’ voice right from the kitchen, shrill and so noisy and annoying and terrible. He loves her, he really does; but he also wants her out of his life forever. Now. 

Gus seems to find all this incredibly funny.

“You, sir,” Shawn manages after a while, “should be ashamed of yourself.”

A smirk. Gus’ brow arches, and he motions at him to keep speaking. 

“You should be helping me! You’re laughing, Gus. How’s that supposed to help me, huh?”

His complaints fall on deaf ears. Instead of taking the time to talk to him, reassure him even just a little - he is, after all, the one who’s slowly and painfully dying today -, his friend stands up and goes to help Jules in the kitchen. Traitor.

About forty five minutes later, and after a couple of spoonfuls of chicken soup, Shawn decides that he’s had enough. He needs real food, and hopefully real friends who won’t spend their time snickering and watching him suffer. Huffing, he does his best to stand up, only for the room to start spinning and for some degenerate to hit his head with what must be a thousand-pound metal hammer. He growls.

“Aspirin?”, comes Gus’ offer. Pursing his lips, Shawn accepts the gift. Though, he thinks morosely, this doesn’t mean he’s forgiven his so-called ‘friend’. 

“I think I’m dying,” he mumbles after a while. Both Juliet and Gus have left his room, coming in every now and then to check that he’s still breathing and that the chicken soup is adequately tepid. Shawn keeps eating out of habit, managing not to gag for about eighty seven per cent of the time. 

“You’re not dying. You’re hungover. And stupid,” adds Gus, still sounding far too pleased with himself. “But mostly hungover. You’ll be fine just in time for your weekly dinner with your dad.”

Which is yet another reason he should have died when he first woke up. That and not having to actually remember all the things he may or may not have said yesterday. About himself. And Lassiter. _Especially_ about Lassiter.

As if reading his thoughts, which he sometimes suspects Gus can do, his best friend plops on the side of the bed, the smirk distinctively directed at him this time. He’s closely followed by Juliet, who looks, if less amused, way more determined. It is scary. Terrifying, actually.

“Shawn, we need to talk.”

And so, operation True Love begins. It’s both a terrible name for any kind of secret mission, and a really dumb way of wasting everyone’s time and ensuring Shawn has to flee the country and change his name. But Juliet seems to be very excited, and Gus hasn’t stopped her plotting, and so Shawn finds himself in the middle of what seems to be a conspiracy to earn him Lassie’s love.

“I mean, you would be _perfect_ for each other!” There’s something in Juliet’s tone, in her excessive cheerfulness and her inability to shut up for more than a few seconds, that rings all of Shawn’s alarms. Still, he’s way too sick to be able to tell what exactly is _wrong_. The scene seems straight out of Bizarro world - he sometimes listens to his nerds of friends -, but he isn’t complaining. He doesn’t find the time, for one.

“So, you need to call him _right now_!” Shawn’s brain is still catching up with all of what Juliet has said. Something about plans, and about whatever, and going somewhere with someone and doing some things he can’t for the life of him decipher. 

“What?” A small lightbulb pops up in his head. “I can’t, Jules. He’s with Hugh.”

That seems to deflate the woman. For about a minute. Then comes interrogation time.

“Hugh?”

Both Shawn and Gus speak, mostly against their will, coughing up the little they know about Lassie’s _friend_. Boyfriend, in Gus’ words; the psychic supposes his friend is right, but he’s not ready to admit it yet.

“So, Carlton’s actually dating-? Oh,” she seems to come to a sort of realization. “I guess _that_ was what he wanted to tell me. Only-” She frowns. “I actually thought he was talking about a woman. You know. And he didn’t exactly correct me.”

It is Shawn’s turn to scrunch up his face, deep in thought, and come to quicker, if somewhat equally life-shattering conclusions.

“Well, I don’t think he’s ready to tell you. Like, I don’t think he wants the guys at the station to know.” Before Juliet can protest, argue that she is _obviously_ different from people like Ramirez, and as such should be subjected to a particular treatment, Shawn shrugs. “I mean, it’s not like he told _us_. We just found out on our own, you know, the spirits paving the way and all that.”

He feels much better now. His stomach is full of canned chicken soup and his mind is reeling, pictures and ideas going through it at such a rate that he can hardly keep up with all of them.

“Also, I think he may have been- a bit freaked out. That I was going to tell, out him in front of, just about everyone, I guess.”

He frowns. He’s slightly hurt, now that he thinks about it, that Lassie could have such a low opinion of him. But then, if he analyzes his interactions with the man that Thursday morning- Well, it was just all a misunderstanding, he tells himself. Like, not even Lassie can hold that grudge forever, right?, burn his aqueducts and all that? He’ll just have to explain himself, once he’s sober, and go over it with the detective.

Suddenly, Juliet’s idea to call doesn’t seem so bad.

“Shawn, you do realize that you actually did out him, right? In front of Juliet. Who he could have talked to, and didn’t, and so-”

He stops Gus with a wave of his hand while he takes the phone from the bedside table with the other.

“First, it was _your_ idea to call Juliet and have her be my advisor. Which I think is great, don’t get me wrong: you’re doing a great job, Jules!,” he tells her, thumbs up. “Second, I don’t think Lassie will mind. As long as he never finds out. I mean, it’s not like she’s taken it badly.”

From the looks his friends are giving him, he’s pretty sure they both know he’s full of it. Still, it is his lie and he’s sticking to it.

“So, what I’m going to do- I’m going to call him. Like, I don’t want to intrude, but I think- I probably need to sort things out. After last night. I may have-”

“You drunk-dialled. We know.”

Not much left to say, then, he thinks with an indignant huff. He goes all the way, pressing the phone’s buttons and finding Lassiter’s contact before chickening out and letting the device fall onto the mattress.

“Shawn?” Jules seems a little bit concerned. He avoids her eyes for a bit.

“I- don’t think I can do it. It’s, eh. Maybe in a few hours?”

***

Juliet hates this situation with all her might. Not that she’ll ever tell Shawn, of course, though she suspects once he’s back in shape the psychic will have no trouble at all spotting her discomfort. And then, she thinks, she’ll have to have an explanation ready for him. Something that won’t make her seem like a bad rom com’s scriptwriter. Something that will fool the both of them, Shawn and herself, because she’s going to need it badly.

It’s too cliché, in the sense that she’s here, forced to be cheerful and supportive of her friend’s plight while he tries to win over another man. At her insistence, nonetheless.

Still, she does think they’d be a cute couple, if they could refrain from killing each other. They’d find a sort of balance, would probably be a high-functioning dysfunctional couple or something like that. And it’s not as if she’s _in love_ with Shawn: she’d be the first one to _kill_ him if he were to hurt Carlton in the slightest.

But, to be honest, she’s often daydreamed of being with the psychic herself. He’s got almost everything she could ask for in a man: he’s kind and thoughtful and immature enough to make things fun. And he’s honest, he’s the most sincere man she’s found - besides probably Carlton, though his sincerity is usually in dire need of some tact to counterbalance it.

So it is kind of awkward, insisting that he call her friend and fix things and maybe start dating him and marry him and buy a house together and have a bunch of kids. Okay, maybe she’s carrying things a bit too far; but the principle stands. It _is_ awkward. 

Part of her is glad that Shawn’s getting cold feet. She’d like for him to think better about it, decide that, after all, it’s all so much hassle- that he’d prefer something simpler, like her. But that’s the irresponsible, vapid Juliet - who she calls her inner Mary Lou -; the one that actually knows Shawn, the one that’s weighed pros and cons of ever being with him, is more worried about what this whole thing could mean in the long run, mostly for both men involved. 

She sort of gets why Carlton wouldn’t talk to her. She doesn’t think most of her colleagues would be _awful_ about it, but she’s heard Ramirez be judgmental of a _dead man_ , and she knows locker room talk still happens down at the station. And, like it or not, she’s part of it. Still, she should probably be proud: her partner has tried to tell her, before thinking better about it. He’s trusted her enough to almost reveal the existence of ‘Hugh’. 

She also understands that her friend - because, at this point, she considers Carlton exactly that - would have a lot to lose, both socially and emotionally. He’s a difficult man, and his latest flings (that she knows of) have all been with terrible people. He’s easily hurt, and almost _eager_ to be manipulated - she’s taken advantage of that herself, at times. And Shawn is- Shawn is great, but she gets why Carlton wouldn’t immediately jump into his arms. But she’s sure that the right person, with the right words, may be able to change that.

The right person, of course, being herself. 

So, when Shawn doesn’t phone, she takes matters into her own hands. She takes the cell away, hits the ‘call’ button and puts the speaker on, and waits. And waits. And keeps waiting until the line goes dead.

Shawn’s terribly pale. There’s probably not enough chicken soup left in the world to fix this.

“He hates me.”

Which is just silly, in Juliet’s opinion. Carlton hates lots of things. Most things, actually. Hating is his second nature, right after being hated and feared. He even despises her a little on Monday mornings. 

“He’s probably busy,” she retorts. Still, she gives back Shawn’s phone and takes out her own. Only one way to find out if Hugh is _really_ taking up all of Lassiter’s time, or if he’s just using the excuse to avoid talking to Shawn. 

When there’s no answer, she has to force herself to calm down. Her sudden investment in this getting both her friends together is taking a toll on her energy levels. She can’t afford to stop and think about it in depth, so she wants to keep talking and doing _things_. Instead, she takes a long breath.

“Okay. We’ll try again later. He’s probably out to lunch.”

***

Hugh falls asleep a few hours later, after a second therapy session courtesy of a newly gagged Carlton. To his relief, he actually remembers to take the gag out before drifting off, thus lessening the chances of the detective choking on his own drool-soaked briefs during his forced nap.

The younger man snuggles close to him, his arm resting around Carlton’s waist in a parody of spooning that is both uncomfortable and quite worrying. He can’t exactly move without stirring Hugh awake, and the other man’s groin pressing into the curve of his ass brings back both the nausea and a desperate need to close his eyes and pretend he’s back home. Not a useful instinct to have in times of crisis.

Biting his lip, he inches carefully away from the sleeping man’s grasp. Hugh has told him on occasion that he sleeps like the dead, with nothing short of an earthquake being enough to wake him. Though Carlton seriously doubts that’s true, he loses nothing by trying. He’ll be _dead_ himself, literally, in a few hours anyway. And if he does it slowly enough he can claim not to have noticed, maybe turn around and smile and get his head down, nose about Hugh’s pants and whore himself out in a desperate attempt to live a little longer.

The thought makes him grimace. He would’ve thought himself a bit braver, much stronger. He’s always pictured his reactions in a situation like this as measured, cool, a ‘better to die on your feet than live on your knees’ approach to everything; yet here he is. He feels dirty and weak and almost childish, and he keeps thinking back to that kiss that he offered Hugh, that he _begged_ the other man for. It may have been nothing but an attempt at distraction, but still feels as if he’s somehow brought all of this on himself; your own fault for thinking that things were going to work out for once in your life, Carlton.

He’s moved almost all the way out of the bed before Hugh stirs. Even then, he only lets out a huff of air that soon turns into a soft snore; Carlton waits for about an eternity and a half to try and disentangle himself again. When his left foot touches the floor, tiles cold against his bare skin, he dares to breathe again. He’s going to make it, he thinks, and immediately chastises himself for doing so. It’s not over. He’s not out of here, won’t ever be if he doesn’t control his body’s reactions better. 

He stands up slowly, carefully, trying to keep his balance without being able to move his arms. They’re numb and tingly; they could still be useful if only he could get the cuffs off, but he’s tried before to no avail. He’ll have to do with what he’s got, which is legs that can more or less stand his weight, pants that come down, pooling awkwardly around his knees without daring to go much lower, and the absolute conviction that this is his last chance.

Carlton Lassiter’s been trained for survival ever since he was a small kid. He can do it, he tells himself. He’s made it this far already, and it hasn’t been easy. 

More than ever, he wishes he’d told someone where he was going. Maybe Juliet, or Spencer; the psychic would have probably tried to call again, sensed something was wrong, if he hadn’t rebuked him earlier. Was it really the day before? He’s not sure how long he’s spent holed up in here: Hugh hasn’t raised the blinds, and he hasn’t exactly been in the best shape to keep track of time lately.

Carlton moves slowly, one step at a time, dreading the moment he’ll come to the door only to find it closed. He’s sure his bound hands can clumsily fiddle with a handle, but if there’s some sort of lock, he’s fucked. Literally. Again.

Gritting his teeth, he makes his way to the promising door, the whole walk taking far more energy than he thought it would. He hasn’t eaten, he thinks, in about forever: he’s also a bit hungover, even though the scotch was good and the only chance his body has gotten to get rid of it has been through puking his guts out. 

Carlton pauses right in front of the door, tries to move it with an almost detached elbow and hears the hinges creak and _scream_ for their owner. Worried, he looks at the lump in the bed: Hugh doesn’t seem to be hearing anything, still snoring and clutching air. He’d be adorable if he hadn’t just- _kidnapped_ him. And worse, he tells himself, though his brain is not yet fully prepared to call it what it is.

After a few seconds of waiting, he tries the door again, pulling it all the way back to him without awakening the younger man. Pursing his lips in a determined gesture, he opens it up enough to fit through it, almost hopping about until he can squeeze to the other side. It is darker there, but he doesn’t care: not being in the same room as Hugh sort of makes everything else fade to the background. Even the fact that he still needs to get downstairs to actually leave the house. 

He tumbles, falls down after barely three steps; that’s what you get for trying to walk with your pants down. He hits his head a couple of times on the way, but lands on his left side, biting his lips in an effort not to cry out and knowing, just _knowing_ that Hugh’s had to hear that. That he’s coming after him, will get him right now.

When nothing happens for about ten seconds, he lets himself breathe again. 

His leg hurts; though, to be fair, everything does. Still, he’s pretty sure he’s sprained something there, maybe broken a bone: it would be just his luck, he guesses. 

Doing his best to stand up again, Carlton rolls all over the floor without much success; he’s in the middle of trying to at least sit down when he hears a voice. He freezes for a second, until his brain catches up with the fact that it’s a woman; Hugh is, apparently, still upstairs.

“Oh, dear. Are you hurt?” The owner of the voice can’t be much older than sixty or sixty five; she’s got broad shoulders and a kind face, and is kneeling right next to him by the time he manages to answer.

“Please,” he mutters, still not daring to speak louder. “Please, call the police. He’s-”

Realization lands on the woman’s features, and she helps him stand up by grabbing his torso. When she lets him go, though, Carlton stumbles back onto the floor, landing with a grunt and a painful thud. The woman frowns.

“Looks like it must hurt.” She smiles sympathetically, gets down next to him again. “So, you must be Carlton, right? My Billy has told me all about you. He’s really excited to have you here, I must say.”

A cold, stilling dread takes hold of Carlton’s body. He opens his mouth to scream, to protest, no longer caring that Hugh’s going to wake up. She’s faster. 

“What are you doing down here on the floor? Are you trying to leave, dear? Because that would be- rude. And I don’t much care for rude men myself.”

Carlton’s hands numbly try to grab at something, nails digging desperately on the carpet. He shakes his whole body, lets out something that’s half a grunt and half a plea when the woman’s arms get around his torso, forcing him up again only to let him fall unceremoniously onto the floor.

“So, are you trying to leave? You are, right?” She doesn’t really wait for an answer; with no warning at all, she kicks him viciously on the side, three times, making him wince and let out a short yelp.

“What the- Just, I just-” Carlton’s panting, words barely coherent enough to form grunted half-sentences. She seems to listen to him for a moment. “I needed to pee,” he lies as best as he can; her foot stops, sets on the floor next to his face.

“I bet you did,” she says with a smirk. “Let me help, then.”

She goes away and he tries to roll back onto his belly, use his knees to crawl as close to the main door as he can. He doesn’t get far, though: the woman comes back quickly, a snarl on her face.

“Poor Billy: he doesn’t know how to choose his men, really,” she confides. There’s a needle in her arm, and she pushes Carlton’s head down onto the floor, knee on top of his back as she holds him still. “Lucky his grandma’s here to help, right?”

The needle breaks his skin easily, embeds itself in his neck; when she presses down, there’s a warm feeling spreading. 

“Well, you’re good to go,” she tells him sharply, yanking the needle away from him. “I’ll give you a ride myself.”

***

It takes another three tries, at different times, for Shawn’s brain gears to start working. Just in case he’s being paranoid - which he probably is -, he makes sure to only call from Jules’ cell. The phone is always on, but nobody picks up. And, through the jumble of stupid, unproductive thoughts he’s been having lately, tearing through self-discoveries and love declarations and the unhealthy amount of pictures of Carlton Lassiter in his mind, something comes out.

Hector. Horatio. Hugh. UC Santa Barbara and some time spent in Lompoc. Tall men with dark hair and blue eyes, all of them drugged, and beaten, and _dead_ . It’s probably nothing, he tells himself, but he has a _hunch_ , and his hunches tend to lead somewhere. 

He prays this one won’t.

“Guys,” he starts. “Do you think-?”

Do you think we could go stalk Lassiter? Like, right now. Like, before a deranged killer who keeps changing names can disembowel him, if possible.

“Jules,” he plunges on, at last. “Jules, the spirits are telling me- Lassiter _always_ picks up his phone, when it’s work or it’s you - which is basically work. Right?”

She nods, dumbly. Gus opens his mouth to speak, to explain smugly that the ‘spirits’ would do better to mind their own business instead of feeding Shawn’s delusions. He doesn’t let him talk.

“Well, they’re telling me that we should probably- take this as a sign,” he improvises. “They’re saying he’s trying to contact us through means that are not-”

Juliet is starting to look worried, her earlier perkiness and ungodly amount of energy dissipating.

“Shawn, what are you trying to say?”

He gulps before answering.

“I think Hugh might be our killer.”


	8. Thicker than water

The drug acts fast, spreads through his blood and makes his whole body heavier, a dead weight he cannot bother to move. The woman goes around nonchalantly, leaving him on the floor while she gathers a few things, opening the door - _so close_ , he thinks; if he could only crawl a couple of meters, he’d be out and _safe_ \- and carrying things he doesn’t get to see out with her.

Carlton’s head is still pressed against the tiles, numb and cold; he tries screaming a couple of times through a mouth that won’t open, but it all comes out muffled, a pathetic whine that she easily ignores. The third time he does it, a kick lands right on his nose, followed by another to his already bruised side. He feels both of them sharply, though his reaction is delayed and sluggish; he tries to curl up to protect himself, can only manage to twitch about for a bit. There’s blood on his face, seeping up through his mostly pressed lips and filling his mouth with a coppery taste. He feels like crying; and that, he finds out, he can do freely.

The next thing he knows, there’s something covering him. A tarp of some kind, dirty and large enough that she can roll him up in it, make him into an indiscernible bundle that she ties up tightly. Carlton finds himself being dragged around by his feet, his head hitting each and every one of the four steps that lead into the house. He lets out a soft cry that nobody hears; then, she starts to pull him up before stopping for a moment. There are voices out there, a male one that doesn’t sound like Hugh at all, and the higher pitched tone of his second kidnapper of the week. If he screamed now, if he moved, the other man may see him. Help him.

Or, knowing his luck, he may end up being some sort of cannibal killer himself. This neighbourhood sure seems to be full of psychos.

Still, it doesn’t matter: he can’t even manage to raise his voice above a wordless whimper, one that the tarp is probably doing a great job of hiding, and his body seems boneless. The male voice disappears without Carlton so much as stirring, and the woman goes back to her earlier task, pulling him up with a loud grunt and a curse and letting him fall, face first, somewhere else. She makes him bend his knees, accommodates him carefully so that he’ll fit wherever it is she’s putting him in. Probably a trunk, he thinks; confirmation comes when he hears the lid being closed above, and a gloom feeling, a mixture of claustrophobia and dread and the conviction that nothing can be said or done now to change his fate, washes over him.

To his credit, he manages not to cry this time, though his eyes are wet and he has to breathe in and out deeply to stay mostly calm. This is not how the weekend was supposed to go, how his life was supposed to end: he’s come to terms with the fact that he’ll probably die a violent death at some point, but he’s always thought it would be _on his terms._ Not bound and beaten to death by somebody’s _grandma_ , raped and humiliated and probably left in the middle of nowhere for some unfortunate passerby to find. 

It takes them forever to get wherever it is she’s taking him. By the time she stops the car, he could swear he can almost move his toes, though it may very well be his imagination; not that he has any way to check. He can still see nothing, though he hears the lid of the trunk being opened up and something hard hits him on the shoulder before rising again, slamming down on his ribs. Air leaves his lungs and for a second he’s choking; then, she’s pulling him out of there, rolling him out and letting him fall to the floor.

He screams, putting all of his strength into pushing air through his throat. It still comes out barely audible, though louder than any sound he’s made before. It earns him a kick, but nothing else happens.

***

“Okay. Say it again.”

Shawn frowns at his friend, but complies, because Gus is nothing if not stubborn and he really needs him to listen right now.

“Hugh is the killer. _That_ Hugh, and _that_ killer.”

His friend takes a second to apparently try and digest the information. Then, he explodes.

“No, Shawn! I’m not playing this game with you, do you hear?” He’s surprisingly calm for such an angry person. If rage were money, Gus would be a millionaire, or at least able to afford more than their regular Fries Quatro Quesos Dos Fritos for today’s lunch.

“It’s not a game,” he protests weakly. Next to Gus, Juliet is also not amused. Arms crossed under her chest, she looks like a kindergarten teacher about to reprimand her favourite student. And Shawn hates the fact that part of him feels like he deserves it.

“No, it’s not a game,” is what his friend concedes after another couple of seconds. “It’s you being- you, I guess. Like what happened with Luntz, you know.”

At that, Juliet stops looking disappointed and changes her expression to alarmed.

“What happened with Cameron?,” she asks. Shawn takes the time to shoot a glare at Gus, who clicks his tongue and shakes his head before relenting and speaking up again.

“That’s irrelevant,” he assures her; she doesn’t look convinced. “What I mean is, this is just _you_ , Shawn, being irresponsible and selfish enough not to even give Lassiter a chance to-”

Okay. That’s it. He’s let him talk, he _knew_ this was coming, and it is of course quite possible that he’s _right_ . Gus tends to be. But Shawn has very good reasons to think that ‘Hugh’ is in fact a deranged killer, and only one of them is that he’s dating Lassiter when it is so absolutely obvious that it should be _him_ doing that. So, he’ll show them.

“It’s not! Listen to me, will you?”

It comes out louder than intended, and much more forceful and desperate. It seems to scare Gus somewhat, and it gets Juliet on his side almost immediately. It should probably be scary, how much the detective seems to be able to trust him. It’s for her sake that he makes his signature finger-to-temple move, even though everything he says from then on is serious and thought out and way too rational for his infamous spirits to have anything to do with it. Still, she either buys it, or pretends she does.

“Look. Think about it this way. There’s the men’s lovers: Hector, Horatio - probably Knick had another, H-named guy in his life. We just don’t know, because they did such a poor job investigating _his_ death. But still, the two more recent ones had very suspicious guys tailing them: Mike the bartender told me - and I guess the spirits agree - that the stalkery Horatio _had_ to have something to do with his murder. Any halfway competent cop would see that.” He knows what he’s saying stings, but Juliet says nothing, opting instead to listen to him, even quieting Gus when he threatens to interrupt. “And our friend Marsden had Hector, who had never worked at UC Santa Barbara, doesn’t show up in the records, and was very obviously a fake maths professor.”

“Physics. And he was supposed to be a researcher,” his friend corrects. “And, anyway, we knew that. The spirits are taking things out of-”

“And the killer was in Lompoc, too. When was it, Jules? You told me, remember?”

“About, I think, three to four years ago. That’s what they said, at least. They had two dead guys from around then.”

Shawn nods.

“And, listen. I talked to Hugh: he’d been living in Lompoc for a couple of years back then, and he’s also been in Ventura; he grew up there. Only came to Santa Barbara for college, around _twelve years ago_. And now that he’s apparently been working at UC and-”

“You have to admit, it sounds a bit - suspicious,” Juliet mutters. Her eyes have gone wide, and she’s back to her scared, guilty self.

“That’s what I mean. What the spirits are telling me, at least,” he corrects before it’s too late. “We’ve got a guy with a name starting with H, which seems to be a thing for this killer, and a specific taste in men which Lassie seems to fit,” he pauses at that because something tightens deep in his stomach and makes its way to his chest, making it harder to breathe.

“And a timeline that fits with the killer’s, and a link to the university, and- Shawn, you’re right.”

Juliet bits her lip when she finishes, fishes her phone from her pocket again and tries to make a new call. Nobody picks it up.

Gus still seems only half convinced, but obviously doesn’t want to argue with both Shawn and Jules at the same time. Though he glares at his friend, he offers to go get the keys, drive them wherever they need to be. 

“We don’t know where that is,” is what comes out of Juliet’s mouth. She looks up at Shawn, hopeful, but he shakes his head.

“I don’t-” An idea lights up his brain at that moment, his eyes drifting to Juliet’s phone and then to Gus. “We should go to the station. I know who can help.”

***

They shouldn’t be here. They should be calling Karen and whoever is working the weekend, telling them to look into this, and hoping for the best. But Shawn seemed _sure_ of what he’s said, and he’s often right, and he was, he is, scared. 

Juliet can’t say she’s seen him scared often.

So here they are, back at the station, which is mostly closed for the weekend. The officers on duty wave at her and she does her best to answer with a wide smile, all the while thinking that it would be better to let them help, send in the cavalry. If the guy Lassiter’s with is the killer - and Shawn’s arguments make sense, though everything he says tends to make sense to Juliet -, then they’re probably running out of time. 

At the same time, part of her still wants to think that this is just a mistake. That Gus is right - he’s often the sensible one - and Shawn is just projecting. It must be huge, she thinks, finding out something like that about oneself. It may make things blurry; even more so when there are spirits involved.

They cross the station with no one stopping them. They find their way to the second floor, a place she never goes that houses offices for obscure jobs, magic being carried out in the sanctity of the building’s premises. The door at which they stop, the one whose lock Shawn discreetly asks Gus to pick while she pretends not to notice, is a shining example of one such extraterrenal brilliance: IT and Communications.

“I knew I’d find you here, my man!” Though Shawn’s usual enthusiasm is strained and mostly dulled, the man sleeping with his head on the desk doesn’t seem to notice. He awakens, looks up at the three of them with some disinterest that turns slightly warmer when he sees the psychic. He even tries a little wave.

For the life of her, Juliet can’t remember this guy’s name. She’s pretty sure she’s seen his face before, maybe around the station, but his identity is a mystery to her. Luckily, the man doesn’t seem to need her to talk: his whole attention is focused on Shawn, and what little expression there is on his face seems to be one of adoration.

“It’s been a long time,” he tells the psychic. “I thought you had retired or something. Gone to Vegas.” He says the name somewhat longingly. Shawn smiles and shakes his head before handing him a piece of paper.

“No such luck, Dwayne. By the way, I see you’ve got your hair cut. Good job, man: it suits you!”

That’s the boldest lie Juliet has ever heard in her life. She bites her lip to prevent herself from speaking up, focusing instead on the piece of paper Shawn’s given the technician. Seamlessly, the psychic plunges on through the opening he’s left with his compliment.

“So, listen, I really need to ask a favor.”

“You know I’m busy. And tired. Hungry, mostly, Shawn.” Dwayne seems all three of those things, plus in need of a good hug. 

“Did they leave you here, bud?” The man nods. Shawn pats him on the shoulder sympathetically. “That sucks. Luckily, I brought you some magic.”

From apparently nowhere, he produces a whole box of Red Vines that the other man grabs greedily. A thankful smile takes hold of his lips, and after devouring about three in a row he looks up at the paper the psychic gave him. It’s got Lassiter’s number scribbled on it.

“So, you said you needed-?”

“This number. It’s a police-issued phone, I think.” Shawn looks at Juliet in search of confirmation; she nods. “Do you think you can trace it?”

The question seems to offend Dwayne. Either that, or he’s having a heart attack. But offense seems the most reasonable option, really.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?”

***

The woman’s name is Elsie. She tells him that, along with a couple more things. That she’s the one that raised Hugh - Billy - when his whore of a mother had the guts to run away from home. That she had to push her husband out of a window so that he wouldn’t hurt her little bundle of happiness, back when she still lived in Ventura. That all men, no matter how nice they seem or how well-dressed they are, are ultimately out to hurt her boy. 

“But he can’t help himself,” she tells him. “He falls in love so quickly, so easily. You’d say he would’ve learned something. I mean, that Knick man - he took advantage of my Billy, broke his heart, laughed in his face, Carlton. You’d say he would learn from that, be more careful afterwards, but no.”

She’s taken off the tarp, spread it almost evenly on the ground. They’re in the middle of the forest; even if Carlton could move, he’d still have nowhere to run to. At best, he’d probably manage to hide from her, wait for night to fall and then maybe steal her car. If he’s alive by the time the drug wears off, he tells himself, he’ll try that.

Grunting, Elsie busies herself a little to his back. She’s brought a shovel with her and she’s very obviously digging, carelessly throwing back the dirt so that it falls all around them. Some of it gets on Carlton’s face and eyes, and as he tries to jerk away from it he discovers he can actually move his head a bit to the sides. Not much more, though; no luck with arms and feet, and his mouth won’t open more than an inch. But it’s something, it’s enough to give him hope and strength and to have him praying again to whoever will listen. Elsie is taking her time preparing what he can only assume will be his grave. If he’s lucky, it will give him enough time.

There’s light beyond the tall treetops, the sun still shining enough to let them see without a lamp. Her shadow reaches him before she does; involuntarily, he gets as far away as he can, his whole body twisting a bit to the left, and she chuckles.

“You’re tougher than I gave you credit for”, she admits. “I should have known, of course, you being a cop and all that. But still, I gave you more than enough to last for a while. You’ll be in no shape to run away from anyone when it wears off, my dear.”

She punctuates each of the last words with a swift, sharp kick to his right side, finishes by hitting his groin with the shovel, hard. Carlton actually passes out for a few seconds at that, wakes up to find he’s thrown up again. Elsie’s still laughing, but she kneels next to him and helps him move his head to the side so he won’t choke.

“There, there, no need to get so dramatic”, she tells him. “Don’t tell me you’re ready to quit, like those others. The tall one, the, I think his name was Andrew? Arthur, perhaps. He was the worst out of all of them. Barely lasted an hour, begging and crying all the while. Almost felt bad, killing him. He must’ve been a real piece of work, though. Not good at all for my Billy.”

She takes hold of his feet once more, drags him slowly out of the tarp and flips him onto his belly before carrying him a bit further, tracing a wide circle on the ground. Carlton closes his eyes so dirt won’t get in them, but his mouth is trickier. By the time they stop and she pushes him into the steep hole she just dug, he’s coughing as best as he can and trying to shake away the dirt.

Elsie uses her foot to turn him around once more and leave him facing the sky, able to barely see her in the periphery of the small circle above. Ragged breath, Carlton tries to move once more, this time managing some kind of twist of his legs before giving up again. The woman disappears from his range of vision for a while; when he almost thinks she’s gone, thanks heaven for that, she comes back carrying something.

He doesn’t immediately recognize it. It is bloodied, stains that must be months if not years old covering the barrel; she makes a show of checking the magazine before pointing the muzzle of the shotgun straight between his eyes. He lets out what he thinks is a pleading groan, and Elsie grins and presses the cold metal against his skin, getting down onto the hole with him.

“My old man was a hunter, you see”, she confides. “My ma shot him in the head, once, back when I was a kid. First time I saw one of these working properly; he would only set it on the table at home, raise it every once in a while, and do _this_.” She moves it, scratching lightly over Carlton’s skin: it goes from his brow to his nose, probably broken from one of her earlier kicks, and pauses over his mouth. With some force, she presses down, manages to push the muzzle in between his parted lips and teeth. The taste makes him gag; she leaves it there, inching closer to his throat, before pulling away, starting back again. “A fun man to be around. Me, I should have learned, too. But I didn’t. And I’m not letting my Billy do that, make those same mistakes once and again and again.”

She’s fucking his mouth slowly, her own breath held while her eyes widen and her pupils grow larger, darker. She actually pants after a bit, and Carlton closes his eyes. She kicks him, not taking the gun from his mouth, until he opens them up again.

“Do you like that, you little whore? I bet you do.”

It’s almost as if it was another voice, a different person speaking through her mouth. It comes out ragged, furious; finally, she seems satisfied, gets the gun out with a small wet ‘plop’, and Carlton finds he can breathe again.

“So, I took out all of those good-for-nothing men, the ones that keep hurting him, you know. That Andrew, he said he was a liar! Can you imagine that? My little Billy, he came home almost in tears, spent two days holed up in his room. And the Jimmy fellow, he was even worse: Billy caught him _fornicating_ with others, being- I can’t even bring myself to say the word, Carlton. But I’m sure you know what I mean.”

She’s still holding the shotgun, still pointing at him; she doesn’t even seem to notice. She moves it around when she gestures, almost as if she’s forgotten it’s there, and every time Carlton’s heart skips a beat. He almost wishes she’d shoot him already: none of the others died from that, but it’s never too late to try something new, he’d guess.

“And don’t get me started on the- on that _man_. Or the one in Lompoc: that was an actual, I don’t even want to talk about it, Carlton.”

She ends the last sentence with an indignant huff, and gets the gun away from Carlton’s face to bring it to his belly; he manages to twist a little, but it’s not enough. The metal is pressed against his skin once more, and she keeps getting lower, talking.

“So I did what I had to do. Showed the world how dirty they were, you know? They say guns are good ways to compensate for a certain lack in the- You know. ” She smiles, winks at him; Carlton’s eyes widen in realization at what she’s implying.

“But I don’t think he’d like it. You’re special, Carlton. Billy told me that,” she says, and she gets the shotgun away from him, puts it out of the hole before getting out herself. “So I’ll give you something special, too.”


	9. Tough luck

They knock on the house’s door twice before Juliet decides to take matters into her own hands. Making sure her badge is well secured in her pocket, she kicks the door down in about five tries. Her shoulder hurts afterwards, and it is noisy and will probably be a problem down the line, but the very loud voice that takes control every time Shawn tries to help her out in one of her cases is screaming to her that that’s something she’ll deal with later.

The first thing she notices is the blood. It isn’t much; it could come from a split lip, a cut, a broken nose. Nothing a domestic accident won’t explain, but she still feels her body freeze, a hundred different scenarios running through her head.

The house is perfectly normal. Not a nice place, but boring enough to star in the dullest TV sitcom without so much as adding a cushion here and there. It has two floors: almost immediately, she starts getting up the stairs, her cop instincts kicking in and having her take a hand to her gun. Both Shawn and Gus follow, the latter still frowning and muttering something about jail and breaking and entering and pharmaceutical reps having no chance of survival in certain places. She promptly ignores them; the steps creak as she makes her way up, barging in through the only door she finds there.

There’s a man inside. He seems sleepy and a bit confused, is only half dressed and doesn’t even look at her, doesn’t even seem to notice she’s there. He’s also on the verge of tears, and she gets her gun back into her holster before approaching. 

“Excuse me,” she says. “I’m looking for-”

“That’s him!”, comes Shawn’s voice from behind her; almost at the same time, the man points a finger at the psychic and screams.

“You! I should have known it! You did this!”

He seems murderously furious, but he doesn’t move: he just stands there, fists balled and jaw clenched, willing Shawn out of existence. He’s taller than she thought at first, young, attractive. He’s also close to losing it, if his watery eyes and the slight tremble in his voice are to be believed. 

So, that’s Hugh. Huh. She sort of expected him to look- different.

“You took him!”, the man accuses Shawn, raising his finger again and taking a step towards him. Instinctively, Juliet places herself between the two of them, tries to put on the biggest smile she can manage and talk softly and reassuringly.

“Hugh, right? We’re here looking for-”

Gus interrupts her, and the world seems to stop for a second.

“Jules,” he tells her. “I think this is Lassiter’s.” He points at the phone, neatly placed on the bedside table; but there’s more. Her eyes wander around, stop to see some more blood on the bed - not much, but more than enough to send her mind reeling. Before she’s even consciously processed what’s happened, she finds herself clutching Hugh’s shirt tightly, her face only an inch away from the man’s, while her other hand presses a gun to the guy’s belly.

“Where’s Carlton? I want to know. Now!”

***

If he hadn’t just decided that he’s possibly head over heels over Lassie, Shawn would find Juliet extremely sexy right now.

As it is, he’s on the verge of doing something similar to what she’s doing herself. It probably wouldn’t be as effective, or as hot, but it’d give him some satisfaction, seeing Hugh’s stupid face twist with rage and confusion before, as he’s doing now, shaking his head and muttering a slow, careful ‘I have no idea.’

“What do you mean? Are you trying to tell me that he just left his _phone_ here, and just- left?” Juliet’s fury seems to be cooling off, which is probably a good thing. She’s got a gun, after all, and one of the unwritten rules about gun carrying is that you should avoid toting it about when you’re not feeling especially well-balanced. Which she obviously isn’t.

Quickly, almost automatically, Shawn’s eyes dart about the room. He should’ve done the same downstairs, but he’s only got a brief glimpse. Still, it’s enough to start to piece things together.

The bed is unmade, both sides of it rumpled, though the sheets have all been tugged from the same place. Somebody tucked two people in; probably Hugh, he thinks, though that’s only his imagination filling in the gaps. But what he can’t unsee are the ropes hanging from the lower bedposts, and the small stains on the fitted sheet - what’s undoubtedly blood, and something that looks like puke, and something else he doesn’t want to think about at this precise moment.

He also looks around the room itself, finding little things. Hugh’s got a few books, an unhealthy amount of wood figurines, and a box that’s got the lid on and that he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to see the contents of. He’s also got a desk and a chair, both well used, and what seems to be a tower of science publications he’s apparently read over and over, both by the worn pages and the amount of highlighter on them. But there’s nothing else in there, no pictures or posters or anything that could give away its owner’s personality at all. Also, with which may evidently be some personal bias, he notices that _everything’s got its place_. The room’s clean, and each and every one of the figurines is placed exactly where it needs to be, all of them carefully arranged by size. 

That can’t be normal, he tells himself. Though, he thinks, looking sideways at Gus, some may disagree.

“He ran away, didn’t he?,” he hears himself say. The ropes still on the bedposts have been tugged on, but they were untied, not broken. “You freed him and, as soon as your back was turned-”

The man’s eyes water. It is a really bizarre sight: Hugh’s almost as tall as McNab, and looks much more like a club bouncer than the cop. Still, seeing him nod while openly _weeping_ does weird things to Shawn’s brain, apparently pressing every button that’s even remotely related to empathy at once. And, shit, he shouldn’t feel _sorry_ for this guy. He’s very possibly a deranged killer, for heaven’s sake. 

Of course, when he looks at Gus, his friend is also crying. Shrugging and trying to hide his face from both Shawn and Jules, he mumbles something about being an empathetic cryer. For once, the psychic says nothing.

“He was- We were working it out,” Hugh tells them. “We had just- We had just reconciled. I was going to get him to meet my grandma, you know? Maybe tomorrow. And he, he-”

He breaks out in childish sobs. Shawn feels the sudden need to go and give him a hug. 

“So,” Juliet intervenes. Though her tone is soft, her expression is set, eyes hard on Hugh’s crumbling mass “, he ran away. When you tried to kill him, like you did with the others, Hugh?”

That seems to sober the man up. He raises his head, lets himself fall onto the bed, and looks at her as if she were some kind of extraterrestrial jellyfish. 

“What?”

“The others, Hugh. Or, should I say Hector? Horatio?” The man is blushing furiously at this, though he still makes no move towards them. Juliet has even let her gun fall to her side, still tightly clutched in her hand. “What’s your real name, then?”

Hugh swallows.

“Bill. Billy,” he confesses. Then, quickly, he adds, “but I didn’t know changing it was, like, a _crime_. I don’t really like it. And, and-”

“I don’t care, Billy. I don’t care if you call yourself Hugh or Hector or Val Kilmer.” Shawn makes an indignant sound at that, briefly echoed by Gus. “But you’ve killed people. And now you’re gonna tell me where my partner is.”

The words seem to register in Hugh’s, Billy’s, brain slowly. He frowns.

“I’ve killed no one,” he tells her. Shawn looks at him, _really_ looks at him, trying to find a breaking point. A sharp edge, a very small opening in what seems to him a truly convincing act. He finds none.

“So, help me here,” says Jules, using her very dangerous, very sweet voice. She even _smiles_ . This, Shawn thinks, is getting real ugly real fast. “Are you seriously telling me that _every_ one of the guys you’ve dated, by lying to them and using fake names, has ended up _murdered_ , and hear me out, _murdered_ , and you’ve had nothing to do with it?” She draws in a sharp breath. Hugh’s eyes have grown wide, his mouth half open in a perfect ‘o’. “Because, I mean, that seems to be what you’re trying to tell me. And, if that’s so, you’re probably the unluckiest guy alive, Billy, and will have to pardon me if I find it hard to believe.”

Her voice has been growing louder with each of her words; by the end of the speech it’s almost thunder, and every one of the men in the room feel both duly impressed and absolutely terrified at once. 

Billy starts to cry again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!,” he almost screams. “I’ve killed nobody, I don’t know- Are they, are they seriously all _dead_? All of them? Arthur?”

She nods, impassive. He lets out a wail, starts shaking his head, hitting his knees with his balled fists. In a swift, discreet move, Juliet raises the gun again, points it nonchalantly at his head. 

Shawn speaks.

“I think- I think he’s telling the truth, Jules,” he tells her. The detective looks back at him.

“You were the one who-”

Shawn raises his hands. Closing his eyes, he goes back over the small glimpse he caught of the lower floor earlier. Old furniture, more figurines, all the pictures Billy doesn’t have in his room. An older woman in most of them, the man a child in each and every one of the framed memories. A child one may need to protect, to save from all the bad men the world can throw at him.

He takes a couple of steps, crouches next to Billy.

“Bill. Billy, man. Do you-?” Gulping, he waits until the other man’s watery eyes are focused on him. “Do you know where your grandma could be? Where she’d bring a man if- if she wanted to get rid of him?”

***

Everything smells like gas. 

She’s gone through the first two cans already, pouring it all on top of him, letting it fall on his face and his bare legs and dampen the pants still pooling around his knees. So far, he’s only managed to twitch like crazy, not strong enough to scream or stand, and try to spit out all the gas that’s landed in his mouth. He still sputters, though, and she stops to watch him roll around in the hole, lips pursed and an absolute determination in her eyes. 

She’s different now. She’s no longer exacting revenge: what little he can see, when he dares to open his eyes, shows him a diligent woman, one that’s apparently intent on riding the world of him in the most painful and horrifying way she can imagine. 

He’s swallowed some of the gas, and both his mouth and throat burn. Not that it will be a problem for much longer, he thinks; she’s running out of both cans and patience. 

The good thing, he supposes, is that he’ll be found rather quickly. That, and that his death won’t probably be as agonizing as she’s planned. He’ll pass out soon enough, he hopes; may even be unconscious when he burns to death.

Not a great consolation, but still. 

She’s telling him something he’s not listening to, talking in a tone that she probably believes is soothing, destined to make him stop moving around and accept the inevitable. He hears some of the words - it’s necessary; I need to save him; everything will be alright -, but his brain has trouble focusing on anything that is not the liquid splashing against his skin, the need to _get out_ . He knows he’s hyperventilating, that he won’t be able to do _anything_ if he doesn’t keep his cool. It is still hard to stop.

He sees her get away once more, hears her still babbling, going on and on about something. Closing his eyes, Carlton makes a last ditch effort to move: his fingers seem to respond this time, as does his left leg. He manages to bend it awkwardly, dragging his right one along, and does his best to push himself to the border of the hole. He actually moves, slowly and painfully, closer to it. By the time she comes back, he’s almost made it.

“I don’t think so, dear,” he distinctly hears her say, and then he’s dragged back to the middle of the hole by his feet, though he twists and groans and tries to kick her away. “No sense in making this harder than it already is.”

With that, Elsie gets out again, comes back with the full can of gas she brought this time. He sees it come down fast, braces himself for the impact. If he’s lucky enough, it may just kill him.

It never comes.


	10. Burning love

Shawn’s the first to get out of the car.

He knows he should probably let Juliet take the lead. She’s a cop, after all, and she’s got a gun and is just about as mad as he is right now. But she is just so _slow,_ running a few steps behind him the whole time. And so, he finds himself sprinting to the place Billy has pointed to them. He can sort of picture it already: he’s seen it in some of the photographs in the house.

It hasn’t taken them long to get the man to talk. He’s actually _worried_ , being apparently unaware up until now that his dear grandma has (allegedly, as Gus has insisted on pointing out) taken it up onto her own hands to save him from, just, each and every man he’s ever even looked at. 

Shawn has actually taken a last look at the house right before leaving, while Billy was explaining to Jules and Gus where exactly he thought his granny would be killing men. On first sight, nothing out of the ordinary; but he’s a psychic -okay, a _fake_ psychic-, and he _knows better_. The devil is in the details, as they say: in this case, the missing knives, the first aid kit and Billy’s own account of how his grandma used to be a nurse up until they fired her, suspecting she’d been tampering with patients’ drugs. He remembers seeing the case in the newspaper about twenty years ago, even though it all happened in Ventura and he was a moody teen back then. One of the few good things of growing up with Henry, besides being able to actually see what an awful life decision buying Hawaiian shirts can be.

Just in case he still had some doubts about the non-adorable senior citizen’s intentions, seeing her raise a full can of gas with the _obvious_ intent of breaking someone’s skull with it kind of ends up confirming all his suspicions. For the very first time, he sort of considers that this may actually be a dangerous situation, that he has walked into it wildly unprepared, and that there are lives apart from his that may depend on how he acts right now. 

Then, and because being true to himself is one of the few things he considers important in his life, he proceeds to dive in anyway.

“Hey!,” he calls out. Against all logic, and in that weird way that things sort of seem to half work out in his favour whenever criminals are involved, the woman stops what she’s doing. She even sets the can aside, gets out of the very steep hole where Shawn can only guess she’s hiding Lassie’s - hopefully still breathing - body.

Plastering a smile on his face, he takes a couple of steps forward, thinking of Juliet and Gus and how his best friend has probably already stepped on something and fallen face first. He curses him inwardly, but makes sure to show nothing in his expression. All nonchalance and niceness, that’s him.

“Hey,” he repeats, quieter now. “I think I’m lost. Would you mind- that is, if you can spare the time-, would you mind helping me out?”

The woman seems confused. She takes a step in his direction, blocking his view of the hole with her body. Something - a noise, soft yet desperate - comes out of it, and Shawn’s heart sinks while he simultaneously thanks every deity he’s ever heard of - a total of two. That _has to be_ Lassie. So, he’s alive. Hurt, by the looks of it, but still alive. 

“What are you doing here?” Up close, the woman doesn’t look all that old. Maybe sixty-five, and she’s obviously been taking care of herself: she’s stocky, just like her grandkid, large and probably far stronger than Shawn, whose last workout routine consisted almost entirely of eating Cheetos.

Okay. Jules has to be about to get here, anyway. He can do this.

“Alright, you got me,” he puts his hands in the air, and for about a second she seems about to bolt. Or maybe jump him; it’s hard to tell. “I came looking for him,” he says, pointing to the hole; she sets her jaw, takes another step towards him, but Shawn doesn’t back away. “You see, I’m a psychic. I actually work with the police. Head Psychic for the SBPD; I’ve got quite a resumé. And he,” he points again, which only seems to make the woman more nervous, which in turn makes Shawn uneasy and almost ready to admit he shouldn’t have opened his mouth. “He’s been calling to me. Psychically. Like, his _chi_ has been like crazy, all around me, screaming.”

She frowns this time.

“Chi? Isn’t that supposed to be-?”

“Hands up! SBPD!” Juliet’s cry comes just in time; Shawn was fearing he’d be forced to admit he doesn’t know what a ‘chi’ is. Maybe some part of the whole mojo thing? Someday he’ll have to do some research.

The detective’s presence, however, doesn’t seem to have the desired effect on the (alleged) killer. Instead of raising her hands and behaving nicely, she lays a punch on Shawn’s stomach, which makes him double over, and gets him by the neck, putting the psychic’s body right in Jules’ range by pressing herself against him. 

“Ehrm, I really don’t think this is appropriate,” he protests weakly; her hold on his throat tightens, and something cold and small snakes its way under his t-shirt and rests against the bare skin of his belly. “Jules!,” he cries out. The detective lets out a curse.

“Hang in there, Shawn!,” comes Gus’ very supportive, very unhelpful comment. Easy to say, he thinks, when he’s not the one being throttled to death by a senior.

The woman forces him to take a couple of steps back towards the hole. Looking over his shoulder and trying to see past his captor, Shawn actually guesses Lassiter’s prostrated shape, the detective twisting around weakly and trying to get away. Though he wants to say something, tell him it’ll be okay, he finds it difficult to actually let the words out of his mouth. It smells strongly of gas, and the Nice Old Lady is taking whatever she was pressing against him away, and he is just about to elbow her as hard as he can when she lets go, turns around, and lets whatever it is she’s holding fall.

A lighter. Of course it has to be a frigging lighter. And a lit one, at that.

Shawn doesn’t even hear the shot, doesn’t see the woman’s body fall next to the place he was just in. He doesn’t think, either - or rather, he thinks way too fast and too much for his mind to make sense of any of the awful pictures running through it. He just jumps.

***

He’s burning.

For about a minute, he’s actually let himself think that this was going to end on a different note. Hearing Spencer’s voice has, against all his better judgement, given him _hope_. Which, following Carlton’s life’s theme, should have already told him that this wasn’t going to go well.

The pain is immediate, worse than what he’s been through before. It starts at his knees, where his dirty, damp pants have caught fire, and quickly spreads up and down, and he screams. Tries to, at least, his throat still not completely responding to his commands. It still comes out louder than any of the whimpers he’s managed before, deafening; at least to his ears. 

And then the pain stops.

It is mostly still there, of course, throbbing, making him dizzy and nauseous and at a complete loss as to how it is he’s not already dead. How much more he’ll have to endure before he can forget about it, let himself be carried away and _sleep_. 

There are arms around his torso, straightening him up, making him sit, and Carlton feels like a rag doll, tries to pull away until he finally opens his eyes to find it’s Spencer holding him, _hugging_ him, voice soothing in his ear and a slight, panicked smile he’s seen on his lips before.

“It’s fine, it’s alright, Carlton. We’re here, we’re right here.”

He’s crying. He’s sobbing, almost silently, almost without shaking because his body still _can’t_ , but he feels the wet trails tears are leaving on his dirt-caked cheeks, and he’d be ashamed to be seen like _that_ , but it’s okay. Spencer’s holding him, _Shawn_ is holding him, and he’s sure he’s heard the psychic’s voice crack, even if just slightly.

“You’re fine, you’re safe, you’re alive, Carlton. You’re _alive_.”

***

He can’t stop, not even when he sees Gus come down into the hole with them. His best friend makes some sort of gesture, probably intended to get him to get out, let him assess how Carlton’s doing. Which is possibly the most sensible thing - the sensiblest?-, yet it takes a while for Shawn to actually be able to let go of the detective. 

Only then, when Gus is already uncomfortably clearing his throat, does it occur to him that maybe, just maybe, some further intervention on his part is required.

He’s used his t-shirt to put out the fire, so at least Lassie’s got that over both his burnt legs and his luckily saved-in-the-nick-of-time, ehm, _intimate parts_. Which is good for both Gus and the detective: it will save them both a lot of embarrassment, and probably will keep Lassiter from shooting Shawn’s best friend once he’s feeling better, just so he can pretend it never happened. 

Still, Shawn does his best to salvage whatever’s left of Carlton’s pants and pull them up as best as he can; with a grunt, the detective thanks him - or at least that’s how he chooses to interpret it. The psychic can’t help the nervous smile that comes to his lips, and he almost unconsciously brushes his thumb against the other man’s cheek.

Lassiter jerks away as much as he can. There’s a sudden panic in his eyes; it’s sort of lucky he can’t move much, because he tries to both kick Shawn and run away at the same time. Which does something to the psychic’s stomach and depletes his lungs of air much more efficiently than Old-Murderous-Lady’s chokehold ever could. With a weird twisting feeling in his innards, he stands and takes a step back; he hears Lassie let out a whine and does his best not to look back at him, leaving Gus to sort things out.

Juliet’s still pointing her gun at Killer Granny, though the woman doesn’t look like much of a threat right now. She’s clutching her bleeding leg while shooting poisoned glares at the younger woman; the detective remains unmoved, undeterred by the pure hate that’s being thrown at her. 

“How’s he?,” he hears Jules ask. He almost answers before remembering he doesn’t really _know_ ; all he’s bothered to find out is that he’s alive. So he waits for Gus’ response without so much as glancing back, focusing instead on Billy’s grandmother.

“We should get an ambulance.” Not a lot of information there: it takes a few moments for his friend to keep talking. “Looks like the burns are- They look bad. And that ankle’s twisting in a weird angle.” He’s speaking to Carlton, Lassiter, now. Balling his fists, Shawn finally dares to take a quick look back at the man again.

He looks _bad_ . It’s not only the dirt, or the bruises, or even the- whole thing Gus just said. It’s just, he thinks, he has never really seen him that _weak_. Not even during the Chavez case; no, that’s not true, he mentally corrects himself. Shawn’s seen that exact same look on Lassie’s face once, back when the Chief took away his badge and gun and turned him into- well, a non-cop. But this time it seems somehow worse.

“We’ll have backup in a while. I’ll call a bus, too - Shawn, I’m going to need you to watch her.” 

It takes a while for Jules’ voice to find its way to Shawn’s brain. 


	11. Let's talk

Once the drugs actually wear off, the pain comes in full force. They’re not putting him on meds yet, not until they find out whether he’s already clean; that’s what the nurse tells him while he lays writhing and doing his best not to scream. 

By the time Carlton’s left alone in the room, though, they’ve finally decided to give him something. It makes him sleepy and heavy, but at least he stops feeling the itching on his thighs and the worrying lack of _anything_ around his knees. He’s got his left ankle bandaged along with his wrists and legs; they’ve also done something he hasn’t been able to see to his nose and split lip, and he’s attached to machines he doesn’t know the name of, half listening to their irritating beeps just so he won’t have to think about anything else.

He needs to get home, hole up somewhere, _forget_. He knows he’ll be having nightmares; he’s seen enough victims - and how awful is it that they’re going to refer to him as such - to have certain expectations. 

That’s why he’s staying awake. Closing his eyes, letting himself drift off now that he finally has some quiet, is sort of scary. At least while he’s conscious he can _pretend_ he’s alright, aside from the pain.

O’Hara visits first. She’s probably only got clearance because she’s police: waving the badge around does wonders in certain places. She knocks shyly, but doesn’t wait for an answer, coming in even when it becomes clear he’s not going to give her permission. Carlton wonders if closing his eyes now will make any difference, or if she’d just stay there until he pretends to wake up. He thinks he already knows the answer.

“Hi.” A long time goes by, neither of them speaking. He would’ve thought that would make things easier, but instead makes the anxiety grow, his insides twisting with all the words _she_ should be saying, but isn’t.

At some point, and without him realizing, Juliet slips her hand into his. She doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t comment on it. It is still warm, solid, awfully nice. Carlton finds himself tracing slow circles against her skin with his thumb until he finds the strength to speak up.

“You shouldn’t be here.” Not what he was planning on saying, though he isn’t sure he had even thought that far. It doesn’t seem to upset O’Hara, but she doesn’t smile, either, which is worrying. 

There’s no response for a while, silence stretching between the two of them while Carlton regrets his words in every possible way. He thinks of saying something else, apologizing, thanking her - because that’s what he should do, that’s what’s stuck in his throat: a thank you, small and heartfelt, that he can’t seem to get out. 

“Did they give you something?,” she asks at last, taking her hand away and leaving Carlton feeling empty and vulnerable. Trying his best not to whine, he nods, but doesn’t trust his voice enough to speak again. “Good.”

She’s about to leave after what’s been like an hour of nothing but the machines’ whirring and occasional beeping when he opens his mouth again. Clearing his throat, he gets O’Hara to turn back, hover over the bed while he prepares for what would be the most humiliating moment in his life if he didn’t take into account anything that’s happened since he got out of work on Friday.

“O’Hara,” he starts. She frowns, but gives him time to gather his thoughts and let out in a voice so small and _pathetic_ that it surely can’t be his. “Juliet. Please stay.”

The smile that grazes her lips is infinitely sad, but she nods anyway and plops down on the armchair. This time, Juliet offers her hand, and it is him who takes it. Some of the tension, the panic he’s felt when he saw her stand, eases, and Carlton manages the two words he should have said from the beginning.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” She seems to mean it, too. She’s wearing comfortable clothes, now that he notices; part of him feels both flattered and embarrassed that she’s probably come prepared to stay. That he’s almost blown it. “You’re my friend, Carlton. And I’m- I’m just _so glad_ that you’re alive.”   
Not ‘okay’: Juliet _is_ his friend, just like she’s said. She won’t lie to his face.

***

Carlton looks like hell.

She lets him squeeze her hand for what seems like hours, stubbornly clinging to consciousness even though they’ve pumped him full of about every drug they’ve ever invented. By the time he drifts off, Juliet’s just about to fall asleep herself.

She doesn’t let go of him, though. She can still see him when she closes her eyes, hands tied behind his back, legs burnt and face bloodied. She can also see him dead; you’ve been too slow, O’Hara. It makes her shiver and make an effort to wake up so that she can check he’s alright; once she does, she spends some time watching him. 

He’s shaking in his sleep, trying maybe to do what she’s just done, the drugs making it difficult for him to open his eyes. Thoughtfully, Juliet reaches out for his face before thinking better of it. He wouldn’t let her touch him, if he were awake. Carlton’s not a big fan of public displays of affection, and even if her fingers are _itching_ to brush his skin, as if to remind her that he’s still real, she keeps them to herself.

Idly, she wonders what will happen tomorrow. Somebody, she thinks, will have to take both their statements. Probably Dobson, or Ramirez; she hopes for the former. He’ll be easier to deal with: Juliet’s talked to the man on more than one occasion, and he’s both softer and less prone to small talk than his partner. He’ll go in, take some notes, leave them alone while he pesters Billy and his grandmother. They won’t need much for them to get put away for a long time. If evidence shows what it must, and if the court behaves, the woman won’t ever be set free. Though she won’t exactly admit it out loud - she’s supposed to be a professional, and that includes feeling a certain compassion for those she arrests -, she’d rather like that. Would be even better if someone could make sure that-

Her thoughts are interrupted by a stir and a soft moan. Carlton’s not awake, but he’s thrashing around the bed, and for a moment she’s too scared to do anything about it. Letting go of his hand, she tries to still him, soothe him by mumbling nonsense and hoping for the best. Only after a couple of minutes does it occur to her that she should probably call a nurse.

***

 _He’s burning. His body is on fire, the pain so strong it’s almost unbearable, and though he tries to move, roll around and put out the flames, he finds he’s still as a statue, watching in horror as his skin reddens and swells and then blackens and falls, his whole being turning to ash while a voice he’s sure he knows whispers something_ awful _in his ear. He can’t hear it, doesn’t understand the words, but the meaning is clear. You’re never getting out of here._

Juliet’s voice wakes him up, her tone slightly panicked while some nurse fumbles with his IV drip. He groans and turns to watch his partner, sees her give him a small smile. He’d try to return it - that’s how feeble he’s feeling - if he didn’t feel like it was an impossible task.

“This should do it. You’ll sleep without dreaming, Detective,” the nurse says with polite fake enthusiasm. Carlton moves his head to nod, and everything spins: he’s about to tell the man he’s given him something way too strong, but he disappears before he can do so, and he’s once again left alone with a very silent, very worried O’Hara. He avoids her eyes as much as he can.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” Carlton says, or he thinks he wants to say. He probably doesn’t even open his mouth: without him realizing, he’s out cold again, chest and stomach heavy, a wonderful nothing floating about in his brain.

This time he doesn’t dream. Not at the beginning, at least: there’s a point where blankness fades out to be substituted by quick flashes, pictures he’d love not to recall. They show him Hugh and they make him want to run away, hide somewhere he will never be found.

***

Carlton wakes up to the sound of the door opening. It isn’t too loud, but it’s the only one aside from the beepings and O’Hara’s soft, even breath. He forces himself to blink repeatedly before panicking: it takes him a while to realize that the figure getting in the room is familiar.

With a clearing of his throat, detective Ramirez does his best to announce himself.

“Sorry about the timing,” he says sheepishly. Out of the corner of his eye, Carlton notices Juliet stirring, waking up and stifling a yawn while she tries to pretend that she was _expecting_ this, about now, too. 

“‘s fine,” she lies. He’d do the same, but all his strength is being saved for the upcoming, exhausting task of trying to sit up and talk. He dreads the latter the most.

Ramirez has the decency to wait until Carlton gets settled, staring at him in a way that makes him feel _sorry_ for himself; he can’t help but snarl, and that seems to snap the detective back to his senses, add some kind of normalcy to this whole mess. As a sort of reward - she probably doesn’t intend it that way, but it’s how it feels -, O’Hara squeezes his shoulder softly.

“So, should I start?,” she asks, much more brightly than she should. Ramirez shakes his head.

“If you don’t mind, you can give your statement at the station. The Chief- She wants to talk to you, detective.”

There’s something wrong there. Very wrong, and Juliet _hears_ it, too, for she frowns and nods and says nothing. Her right knee starts fidgeting, and she bites her lip absentmindedly while making an effort not to stand and pace. Carlton would sort of like to soothe her; it’s probably nothing, he’d say, but Ramirez turns his gaze to him and sits down on the only available chair in the room, getting out a pad and a pen.

“So, whenever you’re ready, Mr, Detective Lassiter.”

He’s hesitated. The man has hesitated, and it makes Carlton’s stomach churn because this is already going so, so wrong, and they haven’t even started. He makes an effort to swallow and nod, and tries to make his voice as stern and professional as he can when he speaks. He’s not sure he manages it.

“Where should I start?”

The man’s eyes travel to find O’Hara’s before coming back to him.

“That man. William Tertsch.”

“Hugh,” he corrects. To Ramirez’s unspoken question, he shrugs. It hurts. “That’s the name he gave me.”

“So, you didn’t know-”

“I’ve only known him for a couple of weeks.” Still, he tells himself. You should have known. You should have done some background check, been a little more _alert_ \- and he would have been, only he was excited, and horny, and lonely and desperate and stupid. 

Doing his best not to let any emotion show, Carlton nods again. The detective continues.

“Where did you two meet? If it’s not-”

“Coffee shop.” Like normal people, he adds to himself. Like very normal, non-crazy people may meet. He sees Ramirez write down a couple of words. “We’ve been meeting regularly since then.”

“So, you went with him on your own accord.” It is quite obvious that Ramirez finds the idea distasteful. Now that he thinks about it, Carlton does, too, though at that moment it seemed like the perfect plan for the weekend. Sex, maybe a movie, being kidnapped and almost burnt alive. What a blast.

The other man does his best to keep his voice neutral at all times while he keeps asking questions. He avoids Carlton’s eyes, and not even O’Hara’s reassuring presence is enough to make him feel even vaguely normal, safe, at that. It sort of feels like rejection, even if Ramirez isn’t someone he’s ever had a great relationship with.

There’s a point when things get worse. His answers come out strained, and the questions start flying at him, piling up without giving him a chance to _think_ . His statement is trying to become a confession: of what, exactly, he isn’t sure. He’s done nothing wrong, he tells himself, even though Ramirez won’t meet his eyes and Juliet’s back is all he can see and they _know_ , _they know about what you did, what you let him do, what you_ asked him _to do_. 

“Was there a physical altercation? Did he do something to you?”

He wants to tell him. Her, mostly. Right here, right now. He wants Hugh to be locked away somewhere he can’t ever see him again, wants justice to be served because that’s the way the world should work. But the words get stuck in his throat, and he alters the truth just a little bit, and by the time he’s done it’s too late to come back and come clean.

“He beat me up,” he says. His own voice sounds strained to him, the lie - not that he’s exactly _lying_ ; just withholding irrelevant information. “That’s, eh, it wasn’t that bad. I- Most of the injuries were sustained later.” 

He manages to keep his words as clinical and detached as he’s capable of. Nothing he’s said is technically a lie. Hugh- _William_ , he shouldn’t be the focus here, though he supposes there will be a case against him, too. Kidnapping an agent of the law, no matter how willing he may have been at the beginning, tends to piss the whole police force off.

Things get strangely better once they reach the topic of Elsie Tertsch. Ramirez goes back to looking at him in the face when talking, and Juliet turns for a bit and almost grabs his hand before realizing there’s someone else in the room and settling for a warm smile. He still feels violent, still reacts like a suspect at times, but most of his story comes out in a long, breathless blurb. It’s not until he’s finished that he stops to think about it, _really think about it_ , and he remembers the fire and feels his breath hitch, his whole body start to tremble.

Both of the other detectives give him time to recover while pretending not to see.

“So, had you ever met that woman before? Did she say-?”

Carlton shakes his head. 

“Not once. Hugh- William told me some bits about her. Before, you know. Friday.”

Not three days ago. It feels like a lifetime: the Carlton from Friday was such a different man. His biggest worries were enjoying his brand new boyfriend and sorting out his whatever with Spencer. Fight. Kiss. Something. The idea is alien to him now: there’s so much more that needs to happen before he can even let himself _think_ about any of those things. 

“Okay. That will be-” Before Ramirez stands, Carlton speaks up again.

“She confessed.” That stops the other man dead on his tracks. “To the others. I guess it’d be easy to get her for- this.” Carlton forces a breath in and out in an effort to focus. “But she killed them, too. And some more. She told me: I can-”

“I’m pretty sure DNA will give us something solid to hold on to,” comes Juliet’s voice from his side. She’s looking up at Ramirez for confirmation; the other man nods. “I don’t think you’ll have to testify, Carlton.”

But he _wants to_. He’ll need to, if only to prove to himself that they’ve not destroyed him. That he’s fine, he’ll recover, and that under the scars and the nightmares he’s sure will keep plaguing him, there’s still that Carlton Lassiter from Friday morning. Still, he nods. 

“Good to know.”


	12. Healing words

“So, Jules told me you’re in full party mode.”

Shawn’s _hysterical_. He’s tried to come in earlier, get past security, but has stopped himself after realizing that- well, he’s not sure his visit is actually going to help. Maybe Lassie doesn’t want to see him. Maybe he should just- run. Somewhere else. For a very long time. 

But instead he’s been responsible, has waited almost a full day, and now he’s rewarded with the sad sight of an off-white hospital bedroom with no wifi or TV. At least, he supposes, Lassie has drugs.

“Spencer.” The greeting is mostly neutral, but the man in the bed nods in his direction and does something with his face that would - could- be a smile if he wasn’t Lassiter. He doesn’t wave, but Shawn will take what he can get, and so he plops down on the armchair. It is still warm.

“Did Jules spend the night here?,” he asks, genuinely surprised. He’s not sure she’s allowed to do that. Probably had to use her womanly charms and/or her cop status to get the nurses to stop pestering her about it.

Lassie nods. He’s got an unopened pot of pudding in his hands, and he’s idly playing with it, risking both a stain and the loss of a great dessert. Shawn, always thoughtful and conscientious, takes it away from him and puts it on the table. Their hands brush slightly when he does so, and a shot of adrenaline goes through his whole body. He smiles at the detective.

“Good. Did you get to see her bed hair? Well, armchair hair.” He shrugs, and Lassiter looks at him with some confusion, but ends up grinning a bit. “It has to be _something_.”

“You’re probably not one to talk,” the older man croaks with surprisingly good humour. “I mean, if it’s worse than your _everyday_ hair-”

The banter feels _good_. It’s well-meaning; a bit decaffeinated, but still part of their normal routine, their thing. He likes that about Lassie, how he gets all worked up and flustered but is still capable of giving him a retort of some kind, even if it’s lame. The smile that creeps on his lips is less fake this time.

“So, how are you feeling? Are those drugs all they’re chalked up to be?”

The older man takes some time before answering.

“I- guess I’m as good as expected. It’ll take time to heal, but it’s mostly- burnt skin, a couple of bruises, that kind of thing. I’ll be fine.”

Shawn’s actually taken a good look at Lassie’s file before coming in. He knows it’ll take a bit more than rest and drugs to patch him up, but he says nothing. Instead, he rubs the detective’s shoulder in what he hopes is a non-threatening, friendly way. Lassiter’s expression alters slightly, but there’s no rebuttal, nothing to indicate he doesn’t welcome the touch. Which is weird; maybe a side-effect of the drugs.

They don’t talk much for a while. Mostly, Shawn recounts some random fact he heard or made up somewhere, and Lassie frowns and tries to correct him before giving up altogether and sort of accepting the new reality, as described by one Shawn Spencer. It’s only after a while that the psychic actually lets himself briefly touch the subject of- well. What brought them here.

“I’m glad you’re- here. You know,” he says. Lassie nods, says nothing; for a second his eyes seem almost watery, as if he was thinking of getting _emotional_. That’s something Shawn has no desire nor need to see, ever. “Just, FYI, the- both of them, we got them. And, you know, spirits have been quite chatty this morning. Gave us, ehrm, some insights.”

He finishes the idea quickly, afraid of lingering too long on a topic Lassie probably doesn’t want to be thinking of. Still, he’s sure the detective wants to know a bit about it. It’ll probably make him feel - safe, he guesses. That was how it was for him, back during the Yang incident.Though at least his own serial killer was adorably dorky, instead of just murderous.

Lassie nods after a while, maybe mulling over what he’s said. He’s pursed his lips, and his frown is more authentic than the ones he’s been using with Shawn throughout the visit. Maybe, the younger man tells himself, he should have let Jules breach the topic.

“Thank you,” he hears Carlton say at last. Then the man raises his head, looks him in the eye, and everything inside Shawn melts and goes down a metaphorical drain, and he’s there no more. “For, you know. Everything. Thank you, Shawn.”

That, right there, is their Polaroid moment. That’s something he’s sure won’t ever happen again in his lifetime, similar to the Harley Comment or whatever. And yet he can’t exactly enjoy it, because there’s something just _wrong_ in Carlton’s eyes, something sad and hurt and absolutely terrified, and Shawn’s mind can only think of how to protect him, which is absolutely ridiculous. 

Not thinking, because if he did he would never ever do _this_ , he lets his hand wander, reach the bed, and find Lassiter’s. Surprisingly, the man squeezes back, which makes him wonder if he’s been replaced by a pod person or if things are really _that_ bad. He’d like to stick to his first theory, but everything that happens next - fast and blurry as it turns out to be - kind of tilts the balance in favour of the second.

“Lass?,” he hears himself say, and he already knows for sure this is going to fuck everything up. Still, Lassiter seems unaware - again, probably the drugs -, and he innocently lets him speak. “Lass, I think I may love you.”

***

It feels like a blow. Like a physical hit, one so strong that he can’t help but recoil, double over as he catches his breath and tries to process what Spencer - Shawn Spencer - has just told him. 

It must be the drugs, is what he tells himself. He’s probably still unconscious, dreaming up all kinds of nonsense to cope with all that’s happened, all that he’ll still have to face. But Shawn’s hand is still squeezing his, and the psychic is closer than he should probably be comfortable with, and things are just _weird_. Carlton hasn’t felt this confused since the day he came home to find Victoria’s things were out. And back then he was sober, at least. Right now whatever they’ve given him is making things surreal, time stretching out impossibly while Spencer, Shawn, babbles on, waiting for a response. Or a bullet to the head.

Carlton doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to that. So, he does the only thing he can think of, even though Shawn is still talking and he should probably hear him out before destroying everything.

He takes the psychic’s arm and pulls, and once he’s down to his level he grabs his head to kiss him, everything in his body screaming at once what a terrible idea this is.

***

Oh. My.

Shawn’s not a religious person. He’s kind of proud of his lack of belief in any type of superior, divine force; which truly is something, bearing in mind everything that’s happened in his life that sort of points at _someone_ out there helping him out every now and then. Kind of funny, then, that it’d be _this_ that’d make his unwavering _un_ belief shake dangerously. 

Lassiter is kissing him. 

It takes all his brainpower to sort out what’s happening. He’s still more or less unscathed, alive and awake by the look of it. He’s also being _kissed_ by Carlton Lassiter, a sort of desperate mouth to mouth that’s clumsier and much more disconcerting than he’d ever imagined. After about maybe a nanosecond of shock, he loses himself into it, kissing back with as much force and enthusiasm as he dares. It is almost perfect -they’ll need to keep practicing, of course-, which makes it all the more disappointing when the older man breaks away, pushing him weakly and almost falling from the hospital bed.

Panting, he eyes Lassie warily, trying to find out the source of that sudden change of mind. What he finds is a man that’s both clearly aroused and somehow terrified, and it may be selfish, but Shawn feels a sharp pang in his chest at that last thought. 

“Wow.” He manages to imprint as much levity to his voice as he thinks he’s got in him. Forces a smile and tries his best not to look chagrined that he got pushed away. Focus on the good parts, Shawn. Life’s always bittersweet.

“Yeah. I- I think you should probably leave.”

Lassie’s response is distinctively un-Lassiterian. There’s no heat to it, for one, and it is much more subdued than it should be. He’s also not looking at him in the slightest, avoiding Shawn with such dexterity that it looks almost casual.

“And here I thought things were just getting interesting,” he says only half-jokingly. The other man doesn’t tell him off, so Shawn’s brain - which is obviously not in great shape today - supplies him with yet another thing to say. “You know?, maybe we should try again. I mean, it was- something, but I’m sure we can do better. It’ll just take some practice.”

“Don’t think it’s a, ah, great idea,” he tells him. Shawn does his best not to let his disappointment show; Lassie somehow looks both hurt and aggressive after barely glancing at him. Which is infuriating: yes, Shawn may have screwed up, but it wasn’t him who started the lip-locking contest. “Look, I’m not- I’m not feeling _great_ , Spencer. I don’t think-”

“Yeah. Fine. Whatever.”

He sounds like a petulant teenager, and he knows it. He should’ve taken Gus’ advice, left the man alone to brood and stare at walls and whatever else his hobbies are right now. Instead, he’s had to come, and he’s had to- to _talk_ , because he can’t keep his mouth shut. Not even now, when it’s so _obvious_ that Lassie doesn’t want him here, doesn’t want whatever _that_ was to happen again.

He starts to walk away, his back turned, when he hears the older man speak up again.

“Shit, Spencer. Stop it, alright?”

“Stop what, exactly?” The kissing?, he wants to ask. Because that was _you_ ; he bites his tongue just in time not to say it, though. 

“This. Whatever it is. This, this- _thing_.”

He’s furious. At him, possibly at himself. It is much more comfortable, seeing Lassie like this, a carefully practiced snarl on, again strong and angry. It fits him much better than the lost look he had on when Shawn came by, the one that made him itch to protect him, soothe him, kiss it all better.

That last part, obviously, isn’t working out that well.

“This ‘thing’, as you call it,” he says finally, because he can’t help himself. Gus would be proud of him: it’s taken him almost a whole minute to snap, get the sarcasm back on the field, “will stop as soon as I get out of the room. Don’t worry; I won’t bother you again. You’re obviously doing fine on your own.”

That has struck a nerve. He can see it on Lassie’s face: for a moment, the detective seems to shrink in size. It luckily doesn’t last.

“But, you know, it’d actually help if you didn’t go around just kissing random people. FYI.”

He expects him to snap, too. Take the bait and run with it, scream at him and even throw a pillow or two. He expects Lassiter to react like, well, Lassiter, all walled-up and rageaholic and all-around like the jerkass he is. But what he gets is a sort of choked sound, and a stiff body, and a sudden inability to look him in the eye _again_ , and suddenly Shawn feels like the biggest asshole in the room, maybe in the whole world.

“Are you-?” He stops right there. It is more than obvious that Carlton’s not okay; it probably has nothing to do with how much his legs may hurt, or with the amount of visits he’s going to be receiving from McNab. 

_Get the hell away from here. Now._ Sometimes, Shawn’s internal voice sounds an awful lot like Gus.

***

He’s messing everything up. He can see it on Spencer’s face, in the way his body stiffens when he turns to leave. The worst part is that he’s _right_. You shouldn’t go around just kissing random people, Carlton. Much less letting them touch you and fuck you just so that you won’t have to listen to them.

He’s hyperventilating. Hopefully, it won’t be noticeable; it’ll pass once Shawn leaves - and the part of him that’s screaming at the psychic to stay can very well go to hell on its own, thank you very much. It’ll pass once he’s alone and doesn’t have to look at anybody ever again, can’t let them down because he’s been weak and slow and so gullible he probably should be stripped of his Head Detective title, sent to work at the reception desk. Just to make sure that the younger man catches the drift, he makes an effort to growl at him; the response is a frown and something that sounds like words but he can’t make out, and suddenly Shawn is sitting next to him again and he doesn’t know when it happened, but there are hands helping him sit up and rubbing his back, squeezing his shoulders.

“Hey man. You scared me there.” Shawn’s voice is raspy, sort of emotional. The smile on his face is shaky, but his hands are firm, their hold on Carlton enough to take him back to Hugh’s house and Hugh’s bed and the whole mess he just got out of. He shakes them off.

“I’m fine, Spencer. Just-”

“Yeah. Not happening. Not until Jules gets back here,” the psychic promises. It is awfully comforting while also being simply awful. It takes Carlton about a minute to gather up enough strength to nod in response. 

“Alright,” he concedes. Not because Shawn’s right, but because he knows he’s almost as stubborn as himself. Maybe more. 

The silence that falls isn’t comfortable. The air seems charged, a surplus of energy that gathers around them and threatens to make everything explode. Spiritual residue, he thinks half-seriously; it seems to follow Shawn wherever he goes lately. Or it may just be you, Carlton. It may just be everything that’s trying to push its way past his throat, come out in the shape of words he’d rather not say. Pursing his lips, he gives his voice a chance.

“I’m sorry,” he lets out. Part of that heavy, sticky cloud seems to disappear. Shawn’s eyes snap, quickly searching his; he does his best to keep his gaze for as long as he can, which isn’t much.

“Sorry about what?”

Carlton shrugs. “The- That. I guess. That, before.”

For about a second it looks as if Spencer is going to make him actually _say it_. You kissed me, he can hear him thinking. Own up to your mistakes, Lassie.

But Shawn may be a psychic, after all, or at least not heartless enough to kick him when he’s already down. A twitch of his lips, a shrug.

“I guess it makes us even, Lass. It’s fine.” Ah, of course. Thursday morning comes to his head along with Thursday-morning-Carlton’s insecurities. With the way Shawn avoided his eyes and part of him felt both furious and lost; he can only imagine what it’ll be like when he, _if he_ , finds out about- everything. It makes him choke a little bit, ball his fists around the hospital sheet and want to throw something to the psychic’s head just so he’ll leave him alone. Right now. Before he _sees_.

Closing his eyes, Carlton makes an effort to move. He rests his back against the wall: the cold seems to help somewhat.

“Still, I wouldn’t have minded, you know, doing it a third time. Even a fourth, just to make sure you really don’t like it.” Shawn’s tone is serious despite his words. Carlton opens his eyes to find his expression is serious, too, as is his body language: he _means_ it, and if he’d said something like this a week ago, if he’d managed to get the detective to listen, well. 

C’mon, Carlton. Admit it. It’s just like Hugh implied, isn’t it?

He shakes his head.

“I’m really- I don’t think it is-”

“Hey, we don’t have to; you know, doesn’t have to be _right now_ , Carly. It’d be unrespecting, with all the nurses and doctors and whatnot. But, you know.” A wink and, despite himself, something inside Carlton’s stomach flutters. “Think it over. There’ll be plenty of time once you get out of here.”

***

He’s _trying_. He’s trying so hard it’s almost a physical effort. He can see himself sweating, as if running a marathon. Yet he’s only talking, which should be easy: it’s his thing, his main schtick. Running his mouth and getting himself into and out of any and all kinds of trouble. 

It seems to be working. Somewhat. It also seems to be making Carlton distinctly uncomfortable, maybe even panicky, in a way. He’d like nothing more than to stop when he realizes, but he’s sort of worked himself into a sprint, and his mouth keeps vomiting words without his permission. Shawn’s pretty sure most of it doesn’t even make sense: it’s just too much to get it to stop now. 

But Lassie manages it, of course. It only needs a look -one that’s so _intense_ it’s scary - and a slight brush of the older man’s fingers on his wrist, and Shawn’s mouth snaps shut without his input.

Almost as effective as the kiss, though not as pleasurable.

“I- don’t think that’ll be a good idea, Shawn.”

He should give up. He’s a quitter: it’s second nature, grabbing his things and getting the hell out of sticky situations. He should stop blabbering and accept that maybe, just maybe, Carlton Lassiter really doesn’t want anything to do with him. Even though he’s kissed you, Shawn. And he’s looking at you like you are-

“I don’t think you should have to- I don’t know. I don’t think it’d be good for you.”

 _Better_. That’s what it makes him feel. Kind and strong and way better than he actually is. 

Shawn’s good at knowing people. He’s also great at reading between the lines. He hates what he sees there right now, what he's starting to picture.

“If by ‘it’ you mean - you,” he protests, “then believe me, Lassie: I already took into account your awful taste when it comes to ties. And I still mean what I said before.”

He does. He’d change the phrasing if he could go back in time, though. Take out the ‘may’, because he’s almost 100% sure now. Or 200%, though Gus would say that’s mathematically impossible. Which is why Gus will die alone and unloved. Mathematical rules were made to be broken.

“Spencer-” 

“Lassiter. Now that we’ve been properly introduced, let me tell you-”

“I mean it, Spencer. I- Look, all that’s happened, the whole thing with, with Hugh- It’s kind of obvious that I’m not the best at-” He kind of just flaps his hands in the air, looking as vulnerable and lost as a man like Carlton Lassiter can. And right there Shawn thinks he _sees_.

 _Oh_. 

It sort of makes sense. It’s twisted, wrong, but it’s what Carlton’s body language has been telling him this whole time. He can see him flinching away from him, can see him, breath ragged and eyes unfocused, just a moment ago. He can also imagine Lassie following his impulse to kiss him, only to be reminded of, well.

He remembers the stains on Billy’s bed. The ropes still tied to the bedposts. He feels sick.

“You know,” he manages to spit out. “Could’ve happened to anyone.”

He sees Carlton react, a mixture of panic and relief in his eyes while he fights for his expression to remain neutral. He waits for an answer; when he doesn’t get it, he speaks up again, if only because it goes against all his instincts to let the silence spread.

“I mean, just so you- know. I’m kind of bad at this. My mum got most of the empathy in the family; the rest went to the dog.”

“You don’t have a dog,” comes the faint retort. Lassie’s eyes are fixed on him, wide and blue and vulnerable. Shawn’s stomach churns, and he sort of wishes he didn’t have such vivid imagination, or that he could just _not notice_ certain things. Also, he’d rather like to shoot Hugh/Billy in the groin one of these days.

“I guess it went to the neighbor’s dog, then.” Despite his best efforts to come up with something else to say, he can think of nothing. And so the dreaded silence takes hold again, only this time Lassie seems to find it uncomfortable too, because it is him who breaks it.

“I- At the- house. I let, I-” His eyes leave Shawn’s, go around the room, getting stuck here and there, as if trying to force a distraction. But he keeps speaking, soft and surprisingly cold, almost composed. “Things- got out of control. And I let him- beat me, and-”

Shawn’s hand moves on his own, like that guy’s in _The Evil Dead_. It snakes its way to Carlton’s shoulder and squeezes before landing close to the detective’s own; their fingers get tangled in a sweaty, uncomfortable mess, nails digging in Shawn’s skin without Lassie even noticing.

“I’m supposed to be a cop, Shawn. To, to see- I’m supposed to be on the other side of these things. To be able to-”

Fight. Stop it. Face up an armored bulk of a man like Billy Tertsch and come out on top. Shawn feels like he can read Carlton’s mind. 

“Everybody makes mistakes, Lassie,” he says instead. 

“I’m not ‘everybody’. And this, this wasn’t a mistake. I let him-”

“Don’t.”

Lassiter nods. Looks up at him again, swallows hard and blinks. 

“How am I supposed to- look at them? At you? I-”

“So far, you’ve been doing fine: keep moving your eyes, and you got it.” He can’t help it. It’s just too much; he’s never been great at the whole significant, deep conversations part of relationships. The most he can manage is a small nod and something that he hopes won’t make things worse. “You know you did what you had to, Lass. Whatever happened-”

The older man breathes in slowly, deeply, and shakes his head.

“He- He.” Carlton stops. Eyes downcast again, he tightens his grip on Shawn’s hand. The psychic does his best to squeeze back. “I can’t.”

That last part comes out softly, insecure. He could leave it at that. Both of them _know_ , both of them can and probably should move on, but if there’s one thing Shawn’s learned from his mother - besides how to get the hell away from his dad -, it’s this: when things want to be _said_ , one needs to lay them out in the open as soon as possible. Before they die and start to smell, as she’d tell him.

“Yes. You can, Carlton. I’m listening.” It won’t leave this room. That he doesn’t say, doesn’t dare to, because it may not be true. 

“He. I guess he _raped_ \- me. Though I-”

He knows what's coming. He can feel the self-hate seeping through all of Lassie's pores, the guilt and the shame because _he's a cop, dammit._ Because he's been defeated, brought back to normal human's standards, and it feels like the world's lost its meaning. 

Shawn knows that feeling quite well. 

“Stop. Right there. Don’t do _that_.”

The older man looks up again, sort of grateful that he’s stopped him. A small, shaky smile plays on his lips.

“I was _very_ stupid.” Shawn shrugs. 

“I’m very stupid most of the time. Believe me, you sort of get used to it.”

It doesn’t seem to convince Lassiter; not that he really thought it would, of course.

“I shouldn’t have- I should have _seen_ it coming. That’s supposed to be my job.”

The younger man sighs, lets his thumb caress the back of Lassiter’s hand while he thinks of what to say next. How to fix this. He already knows it won’t happen - not now, maybe not ever -, but he tries anyway.

“I told you: everybody makes mistakes. And he was- he was convincing. Should’ve had the decency to look like Norman Bates, at least,” he tells him at last. Lassiter nods.

“I guess so. Still. It was-”

“Give yourself some time, Carlton. And, you know. Don’t be too hard. I didn’t _make_ Yang kidnap my mum, you know?” It is difficult, letting that part out. He looks at the detective only to find a frown on the other man’s face.

“Of course you didn’t.”

Of course you didn't, Shawn. It seems so obvious when someone else is saying it out loud. 

“Guess what. Took Gus almost a month to convince me of that.” Without thinking, he raises both their hands, plants a small kiss on Lassiter’s. “Don’t be like that. Don’t be me -except if it’s for dancing purposes. Then, you can do no better. I’m an awesome dancer.”

Carlton’s eyes have left his, got stuck on their held hands, somewhere still dangerously close to Shawn’s lips. He lets go of the psychic’s.

“I still should’ve stopped him. Said no. I didn’t.”

And Shawn has nothing to say to that. Nothing that will make it better, at least. So he settles for the next best thing, which is trying not to make it worse. He lets a couple of minutes pass, gathers strength before speaking up again.

“I meant what I said, Carlton. I love you.” He makes sure to say each of the words slowly, and it feels way easier than it did before, if only because Lassie’s sort of been warned and isn’t likely to shoot him right now. “Like, you know.”

“A friend,” the man completes with what is almost a dry chuckle.

“With benefits. Lots of benefits,” he corrects. “And sex. Possibly cuddling. Definitely trying out more of those kisses, if you’re up for it.” He pauses for a second. Lassiter’s expression is open, eyes bigger than he’s ever seen them, breath caught in his throat while he tries to find something to say that will show Shawn how stupid everything he’s telling him would be in real life. So he stops him. “Or, you know. If you’re not, I can also just- stay. Here. You’ll probably want someone to yell at once your body realizes all the coffee here is decaf. Your pick, Lass.”

***

He wants to say something. Anything. He can’t find his voice, though- this is so wrong on so many levels. Carlton’s been avoiding this _thing_ for about forever, not even daring to dream that something like this could ever happen. It shouldn’t. Not to him.

Still, Spencer seems to be waiting for an answer. The man’s nothing if not stubborn, and annoying, and the combination can piss him off most days, but he has to admit it can be sort of endearing. Right now, it’s making his heart beat so fast that he thinks doctors will rush in at any time. 

He’d like to kiss him, too. Again. He’d like to let himself be held, but then he’d be powerless, he’d be weak and he’s been weak for longer than he ever intended, so he stops himself. Takes his time to find out what to say.

“I- I guess I’d take the second option, Shawn. For now,” he hastily adds. Shawn doesn’t seem to need it, though: he’s still smiling encouragely, holding out a hand for him to shake.

“That’s a deal, then,” he says. “No take-backsies, Lassafrass.”

He takes the hand, gives it as firm a shake as he can manage. Shawn’s thumb briefly caresses its back before letting go.

“So, now what?,” he asks, because it all sounded great, but it’s left him feeling a bit nauseous. Shawn shrugs.

“Now, we - and I’m saying _we_ , but I really mean _you_ \- take some time to try and work on it, figure things out, Lassiekins. Try to decide if you really want to kiss me or if it’s just, you know, a coping mechanism.”

There’s a pause after that, and Shawn stands and straightens up his clothes before plopping down on the armchair once again, his hands clasped against each other in a parody of seriousness that Carlton can’t help but find ridiculous. Which is probably what the other man was going for, judging by his grin.

“Because, I mean, it’s already tough being the rebound guy, you know. I’m definitely not becoming the ‘substitute for therapy’ guy, Lass. Not even for you.” He stops for a second, glances at Carlton just to show him that he’s serious, that he _means it_ even if it all sounds light and easy. That he won’t run away. “Sounds good?”

He nods.

“Sounds- acceptable, I guess.” Which is the best either of them can hope for right now.

But, well, this is just the beginning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is The End. It'd been a really long time since I last tried writing fanfiction, and even longer since I wrote something so long - and I actually finished it, which is something that I'm very proud of! Thank you to everyone who's still reading and to those of you who commented or left kudos!


End file.
